


Tuning In On You

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Can I Call You Mine? [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, DJ AU, F/M, Light Angst, Loss, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Radio, Slow Burn, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 75
Words: 180,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: John Smith is a late-night radio show host with a troubled past, a sarcastic producer, and a secret he's certain he's taking to the grave. But when an Impossible Girl calls the show, John becomes determined to track down his mystery caller, convinced she holds the key to facing his demons. Hounded by the press and with his ratings in freefall, John finds his life spiralling out of control in new ways...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so here it is... my new multi-chapter fic! It's my first AU, so be gentle with me.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman) for being a wonderful beta reader, and [Chrissi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx) for being madly enthusiastic about this fic. I love you both.

“So, the time is coming up to midnight, but here it is, folks: _Lazarus,_ by David Bowie. One from his last album and always a perennial favourite of mine, and let’s not forget that you heard it here first, all the way back when it came out, because we lead the way here at 88 to 91 FM, Radio TARDIS.”

John Smith slid up a switch on his screen, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes in an attempt at shutting out the glaring studio lights.

“What’s the matter with you?” his producer asked, arching an eyebrow at him distastefully from behind the glass window that separated them. “Still not over Bowie?” 

“Nope,” John concurred, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension that had settled across them. “Also, there’s the small issue that I’m festering away in this bloody awful late-night slot.” 

“You are not _festering_.” 

“Missy, this is where radio DJs go to die. We both know that.” 

“Funny, I was thinking that’s what prison is for. They all seem to cock up spectacularly in the end.” 

“Well-” 

“You’re boring as hell. We know,” she tipped him a wink that seemed at odds with her acerbic tone. “Maybe that’s why we gave you this slot.” 

“I am not _boring,_ ” John protested, gesturing vaguely towards the wall of the studio, upon which hung row upon row of framed photographs of him with celebrity guests, back in his heyday. He grimaced as he realised how long ago his heyday had been, and inwardly groaned. “My guests would almost certainly dispute that fact.” 

“The last properly interesting thing you did was take acid in Glasgow, and that was in the 1970s. You’re boring, John, but we don’t mind. You’re eking out a reasonable living with a reasonable listenership in the graveyard slot, so stop whinging.” 

“I founded this radio station! I’ll whinge all I damn well like about having a crap programme at a crap time.” 

“You did indeed found it,” Missy acquiesced, with an easy shrug. “But you _did_ also give it a ridiculous name, so maybe that was your undoing.” 

“Shut up, it’s a great name.” 

“It’s preposterous.” 

“It’s _mysterious._ ” 

“You are a deeply, deeply tragic man. Have I mentioned that?” 

“Oh, shut up, you love me really.” 

“Do I, though? You’re back on air in ten.” 

John sat up a little straighter, adjusting his headphones and trying to muster some enthusiasm for the next segment of his show. As he watched the timer on his screen count down, he took a deep breath and then launched into his well-rehearsed introduction with practised ease. 

“So, the clock is striking twelve, and that can mean only one thing: it’s time for _Witching Hour Wisdom_ with your very own host, John Smith. You’ve got twelve minutes to call in and ask me the questions that are playing on your mind, in exchange for my advice, which is free, fun, and as friendly as this old Glaswegian gets. As ever, keep it clean, keep it PG, but, all that being said, I wouldn’t say no to dinner and a drink if you play your cards right. Now, our lucky first caller tonight is…” he squinted at his screen, then shot Missy a look of bemusement. “The Impossible Girl. Hi, Impossible Girl, what’s your question for me this evening?” 

Missy hit a button and transferred the call through to the desk, but there was only silence on the other end of the line. John rolled his eyes, praying she wasn’t going to be a difficult caller.

“Hello?” he asked, furrowing his brow in consternation. “Impossible, are you there?” 

“Yeah, I’m here,” came the eventual response, and John noticed the woman’s voice was thick with emotion. He felt his heart lurch empathically, and resolved to do his best to help her with her issue. “Hi, John.” 

“Hello,” he enthused, as warmly as he was able given the late hour. “So, how can I help you this evening? What’s your burning question for me?”

The caller sniffed hard, evidently attempting to regain a modicum of self-control. “What does TARDIS stand for?” she asked, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for jovial, but fell somewhat short. “Go on, tell us. We’re all dying to know.” 

“Now,” he chastised, chuckling. “You know I can’t give away my secrets. I’m a man of mystery, which means I can’t go telling you all about my No. 1 suspenseful decision, so I’ll let you use your imagination to fill the acronym. But something tells me that isn’t the reason you called, is it? Go on; what’s your real question?”

“I… urm…” she stammered, and John realised to his horror that she was crying. “You know, I’ve always loved your shows. Used to listen to the _Breakfast Show_ with my mum when I was a kid… then at uni, I used to sneak away from parties and listen to you in the evenings. You know, like the totally sad individual that I am.” 

“That’s not sad! That’s great to hear,” he assured her, half-touched by the story and half-curious about its relevance to her question. For an awful second, he wondered if she was one of his diehard fans who called up every night to declare their love for him, and hoped to god the station’s screening procedure hadn’t let one slip through the net. He dismissed the thought almost at once – she sounded younger than the usual hardcore fan demographic, and she wasn’t fawning enough to be an obsessive. “Thanks for sticking with my miserable old voice for so long, it’s cheering to know I’ve got at least one listener out there.” 

“Anyway, the thing is,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken, and he realised that she had probably rehearsed what she was going to say. “You always seem to give out good advice to people who call in to your show. Well, good-ish. It’s practical and it’s usually pretty handy. So, my question is: my boyfriend just died, and I have no bloody idea what to do. How am I supposed to carry on like everything is OK?” 

John felt his heart stop in that instant. He’d been working the late-night slot for two years, and, in that time, his callers had been carefully vetted by Missy and his team to ensure that the topics discussed on _Witching Hour Wisdom_ steered away from such intense things as death, loss, or bereavement, and unbidden, his mind flashed back to ten years before, standing at a graveside in the rain in subdued silence. He shuddered, pushing the image away with some effort, forcing himself to instead wonder how this caller had slipped through the net, and then realising that he’d lapsed into silence as the young woman was waiting on the other end of the line, desperate for advice. 

“Well,” he said, uncertainly, gathering his thoughts. He decided to take a pragmatic approach to the matter. “I’m sorry to hear that. How long had you two been dating?” 

“Eighteen months. We met at work; we were friends for a long time, then he asked me out for coffee one day and we went from there, really. It was a bit of a surprise, but a lovely one.” 

“That sounds pretty romantic, where do you work?” 

“I teach,” she said, evasively. “I’m not saying where, though. Don’t want any of your listeners turning up to get a glimpse of a mourning, widowed girlfriend.” 

“No, no, that’s fine. Besides, I don’t think I’ve got that many listeners… other than yourself, that is. Eighteen months is a long time to be with someone, so I understand it’s difficult to know what to do with yourself after they’ve passed on. Everything seems to be… I don’t know, detached from you. Far away. And the worst part is that you think that you can just pick up the phone and call the person you lost to discuss it, or go around and see them, and then you keep remembering you can’t, and it’s like losing them all over again. You want to discuss their loss… but you only want to discuss it with _them_. Life’s a bi- … life is cruel.” 

“Yeah,” the caller breathed, sounding awed of his understanding. “Exactly.” 

“I know it hurts. And I know you probably don’t want to do anything, just let the pain consume you. You want to lie on the sofa, and weep, and – wait, how old are you?” 

“Thirty.” 

“Well, do whatever thirty-year-olds do now.”

“Watch Netflix.” 

“Yeah… that. So right now, I know you just want to let it burn, and let it take over, but you can’t do that. You have to keep busy, even though you might not have anyone to share your activities with, or tell about your day. Stick close to the people you care about, and keep talking to them – don’t isolate yourself. It’s alright to mourn, and alright to hurt, but you have to manage your grief, OK? Can you do that?” 

“I think so,” the caller confirmed, and John was pleased to note that she sounded marginally more cheerful than she had before. “Thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure. Be safe, be awesome, and be happy, Impossible.”

“I’ll do my best. Thanks, John.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

There was a _click_ as the line went dead, and he put his head in his hands, fighting back tears. 

“John?” Missy’s voice crackled through his headphones, interrupting his thoughts. “John, you’ve got another caller, you useless Scottish lump, so no having a mental breakdown until you get home. Ta.” 

He swallowed, raising his head and clenching his fists as he fought to keep things together. He couldn’t fall apart in the studio, and certainly not in front of Missy, so he resolved to finish the show and make it back to the safe haven of his house before he let his emotions overtake him. “OK,” he said, in a faux-chirpy voice, determined not to let the cracks in his composure show. “Caller No. 2, what’s your question?”

 

* * *

 

John got through the rest of the show in a stupor, barely aware of what he was saying. When he finally hung up his headphones in the small hours of the morning, he stumbled out of the studio and into the production office, barely aware of his surroundings. “If she calls again,” he told Missy in a throaty voice, his eyes burning with unshed tears. “Put her through.” 

“But-” 

“Goddamn it, just _do_ it, would you? For once, can you please just do as I say?” 

“Fine,” she snapped back, holding up her hands in a submissive gesture. “Fine, but if we start getting complaints about caller privilege, it’s your shit to deal with.” 

“Fine,” he shot back, then made for the door, calling over his shoulder in a tokenistic gesture of politeness: “See you tomorrow.”

“Later today, you mean.” 

“Whatever.” 

As he drove home, he weighed over the mystery caller’s question in his mind. Her words and raw emotion brought flashes of memory, sharp and uncomfortable, to the forefront of his mind, each demanding his attention: the office phone ringing as he had been jotting down ideas for new segments; the dash to the hospital across London in the rush hour; and then a doctor’s sombre expression as he had been led into a private room. With each recollection, he changed radio stations and turned the volume up to distract himself, until, by the time he pulled into his driveway, he was listening to maximum-volume thrash metal on a local indie station he usually turned his nose up at. As he killed the engine and stepped inside the house, the lights came on automatically, and he looked across the hallway at the framed photograph that hung at the bottom of the stairs.

Himself, younger and darker-haired, alongside a blonde woman on their wedding day. Masses of frothy, curly hair framed her face, and she was laughing, her face upturned to him as her arms encircled his waist and confetti rained down around him. He closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing them shut against the artificial glare of the hall light, and fought back tears. Opening them again, he began the familiar, weary trek upstairs, pausing by the photo and mumbling shyly: “Miss you, you know.” 

He sighed again, beginning to ascend the stairs to bed. 

“She’ll call back,” he mumbled under his breath, determined to distract himself. “Of course she will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a week since the Impossible Girl phoned John's show, and he hadn't heard from her since. When she finally calls him back, however, it's with a chipper attitude - one that Missy is quick to attribute to something that John isn't willing to consider...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the truly phenomenal response to this fic! I love each and every one of you.
> 
> Just a heads up: Andrew is based on Dr Chang from Dark Water/Death in Heaven. He didn't have a first name, so I used the actor's name instead.

John wasn’t entirely sure why he was so convinced that the Impossible Girl would call the show back. Perhaps because she’d said she was a devoted listener, or perhaps because she’d simply seemed like the sort of person who needed a friend to talk to about things. Either way, he spent the next few shifts waiting impatiently for _Witching Hour Wisdom_ , and, each time the segment was completed and he hung up his headphones at the end of a shift, he’d feel a sense of disappointment that she hadn’t called.

After the fourth show without her calling in, John stalked into the production office with a face like thunder. “Are you screening my calls?” he asked Missy. “And stopping her getting through to the studio?” 

“And who would _her_ be?”

“You know. The Impossible Girl,” he paused, then clarified: “The one with the dead boyfriend.” 

“I know the one you mean, and of course I’m not,” Missy rolled her eyes. “Why would I do a thing like that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he snapped. “You like messing with me. It’s the kind of thing you’d do.” 

“I don’t screen your calls, idiot,” Missy retorted. “I haven’t lowered myself to that level in at least six months, not that you bother paying attention to a single thing I do for you, you useless lummox.” 

“You used to love screening my calls and weeding out the weirdos!” 

“Yes, until I got a weirdo of my own who used to go into graphic raptures about my lovely Scottish accent.” 

“So who the hell screens them now?” 

“Andrew.” 

“The intern?” 

“Hey,” Andrew piped up from the corner, pushing his glasses up his nose and trying to look fierce. “I’m not an intern any more, remember? You gave me a full-time job. A _paid_ one.” 

“Did I?” John blinked, casting his mind back. “Oh. Right. Yeah. I remember now. Why are _you_ screening them?” 

“Missy said that people were less likely to be weird to me. Anyway, it’s mainly lonely old ladies now, not to mention drunk people, and then you get the actual, serious callers. But I’d say they only make up about fifty per cent of all the calls we get – all the rest are time wasters. I just do my job: I either hang up, or I ask them about their question, as well as a bit about them, and then patch them through to you in the studio.” 

“Did Missy not tell you about the golden rule?” John asked, frowning at the young man. 

“What, the ‘no death’ rule?” Andrew swallowed, looking guilty. “Yeah. But this… impossible whatever-her-name-is, she didn’t say anything about that. She said her question was about your glory days, and I thought it’d make good anecdotal material.”

“Why didn’t you cut her off,” John probed, inquisitive about the lad’s motivations, “when she started asking about death?” 

“If that happened, there was no guarantee of how you would’ve reacted, and I figured that if you couldn’t pull it together, then people would realise we’d cut her off. Also-” 

“Yes?” 

“I figured it would be kind of tactless to cut her off when she’s already grieving. Like, that would be a serious dick move, right? Oh god, you’re doing that face. The angry face. Please don’t fire me. Dear god, please don’t fire me. I really need this job.” Andrew cowered in his chair, covering his face with his hands, and John felt a pang of guilt. 

“Why would I fire you?” he scoffed, softening his tone fractionally. “Please, that would be totally illogical. You’ve shown you’ve got some nouse, and that gets you a long way in this industry.” 

The youngster let out a long breath. “Thanks,” he paused, evidently working up the courage to ask something. “Why are you so concerned about her?” 

“Her question brought back memories,” John said curtly. “Ones I’m not fond of. Just want to make sure that she’s doing OK, because Christ knows, I didn’t.” 

“Who-” Andrew began, then caught Missy’s look and fell silent. “Sorry. If she calls back, I’ll put her through. Promise.”

“Thanks, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re under the age of twenty-five, you’re basically fresh out the womb compared to me.” 

Andrew grinned awkwardly as John chuckled, turning his attention back to Missy. “I’d best be off.” 

“Yes, you had. Do try not to dwell on impossible things too deeply.” 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

* * *

 

It was precisely a week since the mystery woman had first phoned, and John was approaching _Witching Hour Wisdom_ in a foul mood.

“I hate this segment,” he muttered to Missy, as _London Calling_ played to his listeners. “It’s a stupid segment with a stupid name. Why did you call it that?”

“No idea,” she shot back. “We were drunk when we planned it, remember?” 

“Right. Well, it’s a shit name, we should change it.” 

“Language.” 

There was a commotion behind her, and then Andrew popped into John’s field of vision, headphones clamped to his ears and his lips forming inaudible words as he offered a double thumbs up, pointing to the headphones and grinning. It was her. 

John felt his mood soar at once, fading out the song several seconds early and stumbling over the introduction to the segment. “So, the clock hasn’t yet struck twelve, but I’m feeling like an eager beaver this evening… though god knows I’m never using that phrase again. It’s time for _Witching Hour Wisdom_ – which I’m considering changing the name of, because it’s a touch melodramatic – which means you’ve got twelve minutes to call in and ask me questions about your lives, the universe, and everything. In exchange, you get advice in a Scottish accent, and all for the low, low price of a phone call to Radio TARDIS. No dirtiness, and no asking me out. Now, who’s our first caller of the night?”

“Hi,” came the woman’s voice, and John grinned. “It’s the Impossible Girl. I called in last week. I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but I wanted to update you.” 

“Ah,” John said, trying to remain professional. “Remind us, Impossible, what your problem was?” 

“My boyfriend has just died, and I wanted advice on how to cope with things,” the caller recapped, in a markedly more cheerful tone than she had used the previous time she phoned in. “I know sometimes people send in messages – on Twitter and such – about how your advice panned out, but I don’t have Twitter, and Facebook is out because of the teaching thing, so here I am.” 

“It’s good to hear from you,” John enthused warmly. “How are things going?” 

“Well,” she paused, and John felt a momentary flood of panic that his advice might have been unhelpful. “It’s actually going really well, I’ve been following your advice and trying to keep busy and stay in touch with people I love, and I’m actually feeling loads better.” 

“What kind of things have you been up to?” 

“I made soufflés… or tried to. Walked my friend’s dog. Thought a lot about going back to work, then realised it might be a bit of a bad time to do that.”

“Why?” 

“It’s the summer holidays,” she said, and he could all but see her rolling her eyes. “Other than that very minor issue.” 

“There’s no harm in planning ahead, though. Making lesson plans, that sort of thing. With kids, it pays to be prepared.” 

“With teenagers, even more so.” 

“Teenagers are the worst,” he grimaced at the thought. “Still, you’re doing well, so you seem pretty organised to me. I reckon when September rolls around, you’ll be ready to go back to work and you’ll be fantastic.” 

“Thanks,” she said, somewhat shyly, and John noticed a warm feeling in his chest. He’d made a difference. Unlike the majority of his callers, who wanted advice with petty domestic feuds or badly behaved dogs, this was an actual, serious problem he could relate to, and he’d made a difference in the Impossible Girl’s life, in whatever small way he was able. “Your advice really did help. My friends said they were getting worried about me.” 

“I’m glad that things are going better, then. Friends are the best when it comes to these situations – they’re not related to you, so if they’re sticking around, then it’s by choice.”

“I never thought of it like that,” the woman said quietly. “That’s actually a really nice thought.” 

“You’re welcome. That’s what I’m here for, after all,” he chuckled. “Good thoughts in a Glaswegian burr.” 

“You’re not that Glaswegian anymore,” she teased, and John raised his eyebrows at the insinuation. “Not compared to some people I know.”

“Rude,” he told her, his tone playful as he adopted the strongest Glaswegian accent he could manage. “I’ll have ye know I’m very Scottish, lass.” 

“Right,” she laughed, and the sound warmed his heart. “I’ve gotta go – I’ve taken up four of your precious twelve minutes, so you go and advise some other callers.” 

“Will do.” 

“Thanks again.” 

“No problem.”

The line went dead, and John grinned from ear to ear, invigorated by the light banter. He looked across to where Missy was sat in the production office, and offered her a thumbs up, to which she only rolled her eyes theatrically, so he poked his tongue out in her direction. 

After the show, he sank down on the sofa in the production office, stuffing crisps into his mouth as she discussed ideas for tomorrow’s programme. 

“Look at you,” she barbed when she wasn’t paying attention to a word she was saying. “Grinning like the cat that got the cream. Flirting away with some tragic widow over the phone and poking your tongue out like a schoolboy. It’s embarrassing.” 

“I was not _flirting_ ,” he denied at once, wounded by the accusation. “I was being nice!” 

“Sure,” Missy hummed, flicking through the tabs open on her computer and deleting several emails. “Nice spiel about friends, though – was that aimed at me?” 

“Might have been.” 

“Your sincerity and warmth never fails to surprise me,” she deadpanned, fixing him with an unimpressed look. “Really, it warms my shrivelled, cold heart.” 

“Shut up, you know I appreciate you. Most of the time.” 

“I’ll take that,” she grinned, capping her pen and leaning back in her chair. “I reckon we’ve heard the last of your impossible caller for a while.” 

“Why?”

“She’s off having a life, dearie. Hanging out with friends, Netflix and chilling with blokes, that sort of thing.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means she’s getting back on the horse, by which I mean she’s back getting shagged. Most likely. She’ll find a nice new chap, and get under him, and get over the dead one, and the circle of life will continue. And it moves us all.” 

“Oh.”

“You look unreasonably pissed off about this fact.” 

“I’m not pissed off, it just seems… fast. I don’t know.” 

“You don’t even know when this boyfriend of hers died. It might have been months ago.” 

“It might not, though.”

“Well, it didn’t take _you_ long to get back on the horse.” 

“Shut up, Missy.”

“About six weeks, in fact.” 

“I said shut _up_.” 

“You didn’t say that at the time.” 

“I was numb, OK? You know that. We’ve discussed this. Can you just… not?” 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and, to her credit, she at least looked chagrined. “Just… she’s young. She might deal with things differently to how you did.”

“I guess.” 

“Don’t look so bloody put out about it. It’s not like you know the girl.” 

“I know,” he mumbled. “I just feel like I owe it to her to help her out, you know? Not let things go how they did with me.” 

“Which is understandable,” Missy soothed. “But you’re not her therapist, or her counsellor, or her doctor, despite that ridiculous moniker you insisted on using in the eighties.” 

“That was a good nickname!” 

“Not really, dear,” Missy rolled her eyes. “Look, just… don’t get too attached. I know it’s bringing back bad memories of what happened with Ri-” 

“Don’t say her name.” 

“Sorry, sorry. I just… I know it’s difficult, but don’t get too attached to her. She slipped through the net, and that was entirely on Andrew and me, but now it’s become your problem and I’m worried you’re going to start projecting onto the poor girl.” 

“I can handle this,” he assured her, resolutely. “Besides, like you said: it’s not like she’s going to call back again, is it?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is surprised when the Impossible Girl phones in yet again - and even more surprised to find that she's drunk. Reminded of his past, John lashes out... and immediately regrets his words. Will his mystery caller phone back and allow him to make amends? Or has he blown it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, chapter three! It's a little thematically dark, but this fic _is_ thematically dark, so heads up for that kind of thing.
> 
> Thank you for all your kind words and comments!

The next time the Impossible Girl phoned, John wasn’t anticipating her call. After his discussion with Missy, he’d tried to cast all thoughts of her far from his mind, instead focusing on his show and trawling through endless piles of vinyls he’d accumulated over the years in search of songs he could add to upcoming playlists. He kept a scrawled list of tracks in his back pocket, and he’d cast an eye over it from time to time, striking through some titles with a biro while circling others enthusiastically. Every evening when he sat down at his desk, he’d hand the list to Missy, and she’d look at it with disdain before calling up the required obscure tracks on whatever program was currently in vogue, and he’d make endless promises about coffee or lunch or dinner in exchange for her efforts.

“Whatever,” she’d usually say, somewhat dismissively. “You pay me. That’s good enough, isn’t it? Don’t want to spend any more time with you than I have to.”

John tried to tell himself it was her own way of being affectionate, and took to bringing her coffee unbidden. If nothing else, Missy on caffeine was something to behold, and he began to enjoy watching her, buzzed on an espresso, beavering away in her office as he chatted to his listeners and fielded their calls. Which was exactly what he was doing whilst presenting _Witching Hour Wisdom_ one evening, waiting for the _click_ that signalled the line had connected, when a familiar voice filled his ears. 

“Hey!” enthused a warm, Blackpudlian accent. “Me again.”

John felt his heart leap irrationally, and a grin spread across his face before he could stop it. He was dimly aware of Missy rolling her eyes, and Andrew tipping him a wink, but he found himself not caring about them, instead focusing on his caller. “Ah, would that be the dulcet tones of one Impossible Girl?” 

“It would, indeed,” she replied, and he felt his grin get wider. “Calling in with a weekly progress report.” 

“Are we doing progress reports now?” Missy asked over his headphones, shooting him an acerbic look which he chose to ignore. “John, this is-”

“Excellent,” he said, ignoring Missy. “For those of you who don’t remember – although, let’s be honest, there aren’t a whole lot of you, and you’re probably as invested in this as I am – our caller’s boyfriend recently passed away, and she’s attempting to engage with grief coping methods.” 

“Which is really just a nice way of saying, ‘get on with my life,’” she corrected, and it was then that he realised she was slurring her words fractionally. “Mr Smith is being very generous.” 

“Are you drunk?” he asked abruptly, shooting Andrew a dark look. Drunk was bad. Drunk was not ‘coping.’ 

“Maybe a little,” she confessed, and he clenched his fists under the desk, closing his eyes and trying to resist the urge to lose his temper. “I went out with some friends to try and loosen up. Have fun. Move on. That kind of thing.” 

“Right.” 

“You sound mad about this.”

“I’m not mad, I just don’t think that consuming alcohol is going to help you to recover well from your trauma.” 

“You’re talking like a therapist,” she accused. “You’re not a therapist, and you don’t know me. I was following your advice, you idiot, so I don’t know why you’re getting weird with me for just _having a life_ and not sitting around crying all the time like some tragic excuse for a woman.” 

She hung up abruptly, and John was left blinking at his screen in consternation, equal parts angry and concerned. She was going out and having a life – just like he’d advised. So why did the thought of her drinking bother him? 

A wave of memories rose abruptly from the recesses of his brain, threatening to drown him. Staggering home from the pub drunk seven days a week. Sitting in bed clutching _her_ photo and sobbing hysterically, wailing her name in a desperate plea for her to come back to him. The agony of sobering up, choking and vomiting into a toilet as Missy stood over him with an endless supply of glasses of water and painkillers, cold and unapologetic in her pragmatism. 

Oh. That would be why. Worries of his mysterious caller modelling his behaviour – in any form – was concerning. He knew the allure of alcohol; he knew that it seemed like a feasible way out and that it numbed the pain of loss. But it numbed everything and destroyed anything left over, until you emerged on the far side of the cloud of addiction and unceasing inebriation with nothing left to show for it but a depleted bank balance and a handful of only the most loyal friends – those who had endured the worst of you; those who had picked you up when you were at your lowest; those who had seen you screaming your incomprehensible hatred of them and had still decided that you were worth saving. 

He would not allow the Impossible Girl to do that; he wouldn’t permit her that kind of self-destruction. While part of his brain nagged that perhaps it truly had only been one or two drinks – that her body, unused to alcohol after a period of abstinence, reacted strongly to a substance she had once imbibed like a regular adult – another part fretted over her slurring and her unfiltered words, wondering whether it was more indicative of a wider problem. He understood his psyche’s obsessive worry, but he couldn’t find the energy in that instant to force it into silence, and so he sighed, knowing that, for the rest of the night, his fears would run rampant and he would be at the mercy of their irrationality. 

John made it through the rest of the show in weary resignation, ultimately leaving the studio in a haze of anxiety.

“Hey!” Missy called after him, her tone accusatory. “You told her you were _invested_ in her?” 

“Ten points if you can figure out why.” 

“But-” 

“ _Night_ , Missy.”

 

* * *

 

In an unexpected move, the Impossible Girl phoned up again the next evening. John had spent the entirety of the previous night tossing and turning, unable to sleep as his anxieties about this unknown girl plagued him. He knew he was being irrational, but somehow he couldn’t seem to find the energy to silence his brain as he fretted about his unknown caller, her loss, and her drunken words. He was on his fifth cup of coffee by the time his shift began, and when it got around to _Witching Hour Wisdom_ , he was cursing his miserable existence and the prospect of having to engage with anyone other than Missy. He had the distinct impression that his viewers may not take as well to being told to fuck off.

“Going to our first caller…”

“Hey,” she sounded quieter than normal, and while he was pleased to hear from her, he was also immediately concerned by her sombre tone. “It’s your favourite impossible caller.” 

“Ah,” he began, for want of anything else to say. “Hungover?”

“Yep,” he could hear the pain in her voice. “Well, was. Drunk lots of water. Went for a walk. That kind of thing. I wanted to apologise, mainly. I made a total prat of myself yesterday. I hadn’t drunk since before D- … my boyfriend died, and it all went to my head a little. Shouldn’t have called in drunk, I just… I wanted to let you know how things were going, you know?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know. Things are going OK then, I’m guessing?” 

“I guess so,” she acquiesced, and he could all but hear the shrug she was surely giving. “Still difficult, but I’m getting there.” 

“They can’t be going that well,” he teased, determined to improve her mood. “Or you wouldn’t have time to phone up grey-haired old stick insects who are proper radio has-beens.” 

“You are not a has-been!” she protested, and he was pleased to hear a spark in her voice. “And it’s not like there’s anything else I can do at night.” 

“Sleep?” 

“Sleep is overrated. Also, impossible. There’s a reason for my covert nickname, you know?” 

“I figured it was your devastatingly mysterious air of secrecy.” 

“That also,” she giggled. “I’d better go, I take up far too much of your time.” 

“Not at all,” he insisted at once. “But my producer _is_ giving me the evil eye, so I guess I’ll have to call it a night. Keep safe, Impossible Girl.” 

“Stay awesome, Doctor Disco.”

“Hey! No one’s called me that in years!”

“Well.”

She hung up abruptly, and John chuckled, his anxieties allayed. “Well… caller No. 2, you’re through to the former Doctor Disco… how can I help you this fine evening?”

 

* * *

 

She called again two days later, and again two days after that. To John’s not inconsiderable relief, she didn’t sound drunk either time, but instead managed to laugh, and banter with him in a way that he was not entirely opposed to, but altogether sounded far too cheerful for someone whose boyfriend had just died. He idly supposed this line of thinking was disingenuous and tried to suppress it, but he still spent a sizeable amount of his time lying in bed and wondering what on earth a thirty-year-old recently bereaved teacher was doing spending multiple evenings discussing her life with him over a radio show no one was listening to. Somewhere in the back of his mind niggled the thought that she might fancy him, and that the phone calls were some kind of bizarre way to spend virtual time with him. But then he reminded himself that she was undoubtedly young and attractive, whereas he was old and grizzled, and he dismissed the notion outright as a product of his deluded brain as it slipped into senility.

It seemed far more likely to him that she saw him as a father figure – hell, she’d even said she grew up with his shows – and that she was seeking advice from him in lieu of… well, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps she didn’t have a dad; she’d mentioned her mother, but no male parent, and he uncertainty and not-knowing were killing him. He wanted nothing more than to grill her for information, to fill in a corpus of details of her life in the same way that she undoubtedly knew him inside-out and back-to-front from years of his radio show – although there was, of course, the one thing she could never know, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell her. He came close each time she called, but he valued his privacy and his brain ensured that his mouth was not fool enough to run off and reveal something he had happily kept on the back burner for many years. Nobody could ever know _that_ , be it in late-night advice sessions or not. 

He resolved to ask her about her motivations the next time she called, and, much to his surprise, she broke her pattern and phoned in that night. 

“Hey!” she began, sounding somewhat out of breath. “I know I don’t often call two nights in a row, but-” 

“Why do you call at all?” John asked, then winced at how confrontational he had sounded. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just perplexed as to what you get out of calling this grumpy old Glaswegian in your free time.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then she spoke again. “I don’t really know,” she confessed. “I guess I just felt like… I know you? Is that weird? God, that sounds weird. I feel like I know you, because I’ve always listened to your show. And then you started giving out advice to people, and it was funny, but it was good advice, and when my boyfriend died… I figured you’d be a pretty good person to call, you know? I took me a while to get to that point… a while of realising not everyone I know was well-equipped to deal with me. So eventually, I just thought ‘screw it’ and called the show.” 

“Well,” John said, smiling. “That’s nice to know. What’s your news for us tonight?” 

“I’m going back to work in September,” she squeaked, and he beamed. “Back to teaching!” 

“That’s great news, Impossible Girl!” 

“Thanks!” there was another long pause. “I guess that was all I had to say tonight. Have a good one.” 

“You, too.” 

The line went dead, and John smiled again. She was getting back on her feet. She was _coping._ Things were actually going well for her, and he felt vicariously empowered. 

Then he caught sight of Missy’s face through the glass, and felt his heart sink.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy has bad news for John about his show, and worse news about the Impossible Girl...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the ongoing love and support for this fic! Sending huge hugs to everyone who has commented and/or left kudos.

“John,” Missy barked as he attempted to sidle past her on his way out of the studio after the show. “Do not even think of leaving this office. Sit down, we need to talk.” 

“Do we?” he groaned. “Why, though?” 

“You know why.” 

“No, I honestly don’t. If you could fill me in on matters, that would be great.” 

Missy sighed as he sank into a swivel chair, getting out an iPad and swiping through several screens. “John, look, I’ll be honest with you. The big boss is having qualms about your show.”

“He can’t have qualms about _my_ show on _my_ radio station.”

“It _was_ your radio station,” she reminded him. “And then you ceded control during your… phase, remember? Let someone else take over management. Ringing any bells?” 

“Shut up, you don’t need to sound so happy about that.” 

“Well, _he’s_ not happy about this week’s listening figures. RAJAR have been unusually diligent in their reporting and… it’s not looking good. You’re starting out with a solid share of the airwaves, as usual. Good music, some chat… they’re sticking with you pretty well. Just like always.” 

“So…” 

“So the problem comes at midnight. People just switch off. Change station. I _know Witching Hour Wisdom_ has always been a bit of a hard sell-” 

“Not least because of the bloody stupid name you insisted on giving it!” 

“But people don’t want to listen to it any more. And I was wondering why that might be, so I started researching your name, and the show’s name. Went on Twitter, Facebook, the email account, the podcast page. Which – I shouldn’t have to mention – _you_ should be doing occasionally, to get content ideas and mix things up a little. Anyway, the problem people have started having with _Wisdom_ is that you’re playing favourites.” 

“I’m _what_?” John blinked up at her in consternation, thrown by the accusation. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“They mean that they don’t think it’s fair that some of them have been ringing the show for years and can’t get through, but Mademoiselle Impossible Girl can get through several nights a week and maintain your attention – I believe some of them even bandied the word ‘monopolise’ about. A lot of them are starting to wonder if the whole thing is just a set up by the studio and we’re getting our mates to phone in. It’s like the bloody _Blue Peter_ competition incident all over again; they’ll be demanding a public apology next.” 

“But…” John scowled, unhappy at the accusation that he was playing favourites with the Impossible Girl. He was helping her, certainly, but there was no notion of preference involved. Admittedly, he looked forward to their discussions, but he suppressed that thought and attempted to convince himself that she’d simply inspired his renewed zeal for the job. It was then that a thought occurred to him, and his glare intensified. “Hang on, _I_ don’t get to choose the callers. I don’t even get to know who’s called in half the time, it’s you and Andrew and the team who field calls and decide who to put through. Andrew, why the hell do you keep putting her through if it’s causing problems?” 

The young man swallowed nervously, turning a violent shade of maroon. “Urm…” he stammered. “Well, it just seemed nice, you know? I felt sorry for her… and then you seemed to really like talking to her and she sounded happier each time she called in so I felt it was a good thing for you to have a sort of… bond with her, and to make it like a regular feature, almost.” 

“Well, dear,” Missy deadpanned. “As we know now, the other listeners of John’s miserable little programme have little to no interest in the Impossible Girl. They are not, as he so lovingly put it, as _invested_ in her as he is.” 

“I didn’t mean it like th-” John began. 

“Your head’s been turned!” 

“How can my head have been turned when I’ve never even seen her face?!” John asked, throwing his hands heavenwards at Missy’s accusation. “What am I, psychic?” 

“She’s a young woman and she flirted with you! It’s the most interest you’ve had since-” 

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” he snapped. “She has nothing to do with things. My head has _not_ been turned by the Impossible Girl, and this whole problem is nothing to do with me! Andrew keeps putting the damn woman through!” 

“Oh, she’s a ‘damn woman’ now?” Missy snarked. “So you wouldn’t care if he _stopped_ putting her through?” 

“No!” John replied, then paused. “Yes. No. I don’t know. This isn’t helping, you know… all this… _crossness._ ” 

“Fine,” Missy waved her hand dismissively. “Go home. Think about things. Decide whether you want to end up having lascivious phone sex with this Impossible Girl, home alone and off the air, or whether you want to step the hell up and be the broadcaster we both know you can be.” 

“How dare you?” 

“Sort out your damn priorities!” Missy exploded, reaching the end of her tether. “Put your show before your sex drive!”

“This isn’t about sex!” John roared. “This is about… about grief, and loss, and trying to spare that girl from having to go through that kind of shit alone!” 

Missy fell silent at his words. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly after several seconds, her eyes wide and apologetic. “John, I’m sorry. You just… you need to think about things. The show, or her. Go home. Mull it over. Let me know tomorrow. OK?” 

“OK,” he mumbled, suddenly inexplicably weary of the argument, and of Missy, and of Radio TARDIS. “See you then.” 

By the time he got home, however, his exhaustion had dissipated, and he seized a notebook from his study, perching on the sofa with a biro clamped between his teeth. 

“’The show or her,’” he muttered to himself, tapping the pen against his lower lip as he thought. “Well… we’ll see about that, Missy.” 

He titled the page _Impossible Ideas for the Impossible Girl,_ then added a column of neat, star-shaped bullet points down the left-hand side of the page. 

“Ideas,” he said to himself, in an attempt to encourage some to form. “Ideas.” 

He was damned if Missy was going to stop him talking to this Impossible Girl, that much he was certain of. She was afraid, she was grieving, and she trusted him – there was not the remotest possibility of him betraying that trust by breaking off all communication with her. If Missy wanted to give him an ultimatum in order to force his hand then she could do that, but he was determined to find a compromise. The idea of hiring a co-presenter had been raised in the past, but always ultimately dismissed in favour of maintaining his individuality, as well as his loud insistences that his personality was abrasive and he would brush anyone else up the wrong way – an observation Missy had agreed with, in her most saccharine of voices.

Suddenly, however, the idea of sharing some of his presenting duties didn’t seem so onerous. The Impossible Girl was witty and funny; she understood his humour from years of exposure to his shows; and she could hold her own against his often-pessimistic comments. He remained staunchly unwilling to share presenting with her throughout the entire show, but her teasing use of his old nickname – Doctor Disco; now embarrassingly alliterative but once trendy – indicated a level of awareness of music beyond what he often disdainfully dismissed as “modern crap,” and he jotted down at the top of the list: _Pick of the Pops segment?_  

Then he squinted a little, remembering her words about being a teacher, and scrawled _funny stories about young people?_ underneath it. 

By sunrise, he’d populated the rest of the list with ideas, and passed out on his sofa with the notebook clutched to his chest, content in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to choose between the Impossible Girl and his show – and the somewhat narcissistic, self-indulgent thought that she would love to be involved with radio presenting. Missy was in for quite the post-show pitch, that much he was certain of. 

 

* * *

 

It was approaching midnight later that evening, and John felt a growing sense of excitement for _Witching Hour Wisdom_. The Impossible Girl would call in again, he would get to catch up with her, and then after the show he would pitch his ideas to Missy, phone his favourite – because screw it, he couldn’t deny it any longer – frequent caller back, and propose the idea to her. She’d say yes, of course, because this was his daydream, and in daydreams you always get your own way, thus the idea of things going anything other than swimmingly well did not even cross John’s mind.

“And now, our first caller…” it would be her, of course. It had to be her; Andrew would always put her through, and it was – by John’s reckoning, last night’s call aside – one of the days on which the Impossible Girl would phone in. “Hello, you’re through to _Witching Hour Wisdom_.”

“Hi,” came an unknown, distinctly West Country voice, and he felt his heart sink to his Doc Martens. It wasn’t her, and he’d made an error of judgement. After a moment, however, he grinned, realising she might call tomorrow instead, and he felt his spirits soar once more, grinning despite his disappointment and focusing on his caller. “I was looking for some advice on my noisy neighbour…”

John was in the best of moods for the rest of the show, dispensing unusually cheerful advice to callers and choosing tracks by artists that he’d loved to dance to in his youth: Bruce Springsteen, David Bowie, and The Clash. By the time the sign above the door switched from _ON AIR: LIVE_ to _OFF AIR,_ he was on cloud nine, buoyed by the prospect of his impending pitch. 

“Someone’s perky,” Missy observed, as he swanned into the office and perched on the edge of her desk. “Did you finally discover Pornhub?”

“Ha ha,” he said drily, whipping out his notebook and clicking his pen. “No, I figured out that I can combine the Impossible Girl with the show, and I’ve got some bloody amazing ideas, Missy, so buckle up and get ready to hear me out.” 

“Got some bad news there, John,” Missy said, her expression sorrowful. “She called in today and told us that she needed to focus on herself a bit more, so she wouldn’t be calling again.” 

John felt his heart stop. She couldn’t do that – could she? It seemed counterproductive to what they’d discussed and the advice that he’d given her; retreating into her shell and isolating herself from things she enjoyed was the worst possible thing that she could do in the wake of her loss. Part of him was worried about her wellbeing, but another, equally vocal part of him was upset that his ideas would now never come to fruition. He would never be able to finish helping her by giving her a creative outlet as something to look forward to. He would never be able to chat to her again, or find out how her life was going, and that bothered him more than it should’ve. Not least because there was a very real risk she might- 

“God, don’t look so stricken,” Missy said in exasperation. “She’s not you, John; she’s got her shit together.” 

“But… I had all these… wait,” he held up one hand, realising there was still a ray of hope. “You guys have her number. I can call her back; these ideas can still work out.” 

“John, I’m sorry,” Missy said with sincerity, looking at him with pity. “Andrew told me she used a blocked number when she called. There’s no way we can trace it back to her.” 

“But…” he felt tears of frustration sting at his eyes, and clenched his fists in defiance. “Missy, this…”

“It’s life, John. You don’t even know the girl. Stop making it into a big deal.” 

“But…”

“John, _stop it._ Enough. I get that you’re projecting, but _she is not you_.” 

“Fine,” he said bitterly, ripping the page from his notebook and screwing it into a ball before tossing it at the bin and turning on his heel to leave. “ _Fine._ ” 

“John, wait…” 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

In a flat in Shoreditch, Clara Oswald stared numbly down at her phone. She hadn’t moved in the past hour, not since she’d made her usual phone call and received an unwelcome response.

_“Is this the Impossible Girl?” a Scottish woman asked, her tone brusque. “The one who calls John all the time?”_

_“I…” she stammered, thrown by the hostility in the woman’s voice. “Yeah, why?”_

_“I’m his producer, and I have a warning for you: stop calling the show, or I’ll sue you for harassment. Is that understood? John doesn’t want you to call any more, it’s making him look biased, and he doesn’t run a chat show. You’re not a co-presenter, you’re just some girl who phoned up once, and then again, and now won’t stop_ borderline stalking _him. So, pack it in, do you understand?”_

_“But…”_

_“Yes or no?”_

_“Y-yes…”_

_The woman hung up._

She’d long since cried herself out over the thought of John Smith – the same John Smith she had implicitly trusted to help and advise her; the same John Smith she had grown up listening to – hating her. She had been numb before, to the pain of Danny’s death, and the world around her; but now she was numb to the indifference of the one person she had foolishly hoped could make a difference. She was going back to work, and that had seemed a landmark victory, but now she felt numb to that as well. 

There was the sound of a key in the lock, and she looked up to take in the sight of her flatmate stumbling over the threshold, all effortlessly long limbs and flaming auburn hair. 

“Hey!” Amy enthused, staggering into the lounge on improbably tall heels that seemed superfluous to Clara given her already-superior height. “How’s my favourite flatmate?” 

“ _Only_ flatmate,” Clara snapped mechanically, her anxiety crawling up her throat and tainting the words as they left her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m… OK, yeah.” 

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” 

“You know what I mean, babe,” Amy said more gently, giving her a look that bordered dangerously close to pity, and Clara dissolved into tears at the non-verbal sentiment. “Shit. Clara, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… hey, what is it?” 

Amy sank down beside her, pulling her into a reassuring hug. “It’s just…” Clara began, hiccupping between sobs and wondering how best to phrase things, before settling for a familiar scenario that Amy could relate to. “Just lost a friend.” 

“Shit, like _lost_ lost? Or like, they-buggered-off-and-abandoned-you lost?” 

“The second one,” Clara explained, sobbing all the harder. “Sorry, I know I’m being silly…” 

“Not at all,” Amy soothed, stroking Clara’s hair as she spoke. “Screw them. You’ve got me, and we’re going to curl up on the sofa and watch _The Heat_ to make you feel better _._ ” 

“Amy, it’s two in the morning.”

“Yes, and neither of us have work, so shut up and shove over.”

“You’re the best. Sorry for being a snivelling wreck, and sorry for crying all the time, and sorry for generally not being a very productive flatmate. I just… sorry.”

“Clara, your boyfriend _did_ just die, you’re allowed to snivel. Stop apologising.”

“Thanks, I guess.” 

“You’re welcome.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Missy's revelation about the Impossible Girl, John decides to go rogue in a major way, consequences be damned. But it's not until afterwards that he realises exactly what he's done...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for all the amazing feedback to this fic! As a thank you, I will be uploading a second chapter tomorrow, in order to thank you all for being wonderful.

“For god sake,” Missy muttered as soon as she saw John on Monday evening, his hair askew and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of a hoodie that he knew was superfluous in August, but encapsulated his mood more succinctly than any of his other clothes. “You look like shit. What did you _do_?” 

“Nothing,” he said at once, scowling at her over the top of his travel mug and feeling abruptly self-conscious of his two-day stubble. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, and you look like it.” 

“So I don’t look like shit, I look like the victim of apathy. In which case, asking me what I ‘did’ was a totally functionless activity, wasn’t it?” 

“Don’t try and play the nihilist with me, John Smith. You’ve been _moping_ ,” she examined his face critically, and he knew she was waiting for a tell-tale sign that he was lying. He arranged his features into the most appropriately neutral expression he could manage, but couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from quirking downwards a fraction. “God, you have, haven’t you?”

“Piss off.” 

“No, I won’t piss off,” she poked her tongue out at him, childishly. “You weren’t moping last week.” 

“Well last week I had shows to present, didn’t I?” he snapped, bored of her nagging. “Then Sunday rolled around and I had bugger all to do-”

“So you _were_ moping!” Missy crowed in triumph, and John experienced a sudden sense of certainty that she’d been placing bets on the matter. “I _knew_ it. You tragic old saddo.”

“I was not _moping,_ ” he scowled all the more deeply at the accusation, although part of him realised that Missy may have a point. “I was worrying about the Impossible Girl.” 

“What’s to worry about? She phoned you up; she got help; she stopped phoning you up. She got a life,” Missy rolled her eyes. “And that’s good. OK? It means she’s coping. Unlike you.” 

“I’m coping.”

“You’re obsessed with a girl you’ve only spoken to on the phone.”

“I am not _obsessed_.” 

“What adjective would you prefer?” Missy arched an eyebrow in a silent challenge. “’Besotted’?” 

John paused for a moment, taking a swig of his coffee as he mulled over the question. Missy’s suggestions were laden with precisely that – suggestion, of the improper kind. He was certainly worried about the Impossible Girl and her life, but his motives were more innocent than Missy gave him credit for. 

“Concerned,” he said aloud, realising she was still waiting for an answer. “I’m concerned about her.” 

“John,” she said, and he realised with horror that she was looking at him with something akin to worry. “I know we cocked up and let her slip through the screening process, and I know her story stirred stuff up for you. But you can’t let this get to you like it is. You can’t let this bother you as much as it is. Remember… she – is – not – you. OK?” 

“I know,” he mumbled, thrown by her concern for him. Emotion wasn’t something Missy generally favoured, unless it was disdain or disgust, and that was reserved for his clothing or his taste in music. “I know she’s not. I just know how lonely it is.” 

“You had me, John.” 

“I know,” he said again, acquiescing to her with resignation and trying not to let his mind slip back to darker days. “But that was all. I had you – everybody else ran.” 

“You drove-”

“Missy,” he said tightly, eager to end the conversation. “I know. OK? I know what I did, and I know I messed up, and I just… I just don’t want her to suffer the way I did.” 

Missy was surveying him with an odd expression, and he grimaced. “What?” 

“You’re…” she chewed her purple-painted lower lip, mulling over her choice of words. “Very _nice_ sometimes. Stupid, and moronic, but fundamentally nice.” 

“Thanks, I think,” he chuckled, setting down his mug and stepping into the studio. Missy in a charitable mood was rare – not to mention becoming more uncommon with each passing year – and he was loathe to interfere with her good humour, but he’d spent his day off crafting a careful plan of action, and it was not one that would win approval from his production team. It was a terrible plan – he knew that, deep down – but one worth attempting nonetheless, and as he slipped his headphones on and adjusted the mic, he felt a rush of adrenaline at the prospect of defying Missy and going rogue.

She gave him a thumbs up through the glass, indicating that he was live, and he launched into his introduction with a practised ease.

“Good evening folks, the time has just gone 11pm, and you’re listening to John Smith on Radio TARDIS. On tonight’s show, we’ve got some great tracks coming up, including some absolute classics from the Dreamboys, and I’ll be taking your requests via Twitter for some of your favourite golden oldies,” he paused, knowing he should really stop there, but throwing caution to the wind anyway. “But first up, your favourite golden oldie radio DJ has a request for his listeners.” 

From her office, Missy was gesticulating wildly and mouthing what were undoubtedly obscenities, but John only turned his chair away from her and swallowed his nerves. 

“Some of you may have heard a mystery caller getting involved with _Witching Hour Wisdom_ over the last few weeks _._ Called herself ‘the Impossible Girl’ to keep up a general aura of being _inconnue…_ which is French for unknown, don’t know why I’m trying to get all fancy on you all. Anyway. She’d just lost her boyfriend, and she was having a bit of a tough time of things, which is why she called the show. This sad old Scottish chap offered what help he could, but we’ve … lost contact with her, which is frankly not ideal under the circumstances, and we’d like to check in and see how she’s getting on so that we can give you all a progress report. There’s just one tiny spanner in the works though: thanks to the marvel of modern technology – by which I mean it’s a word that I’m far too polite to say, even at this late hour – we don’t have her number, so I’ve got a challenge for my listeners. Anyone who can find me one Impossible Girl – wait, no, that’s vague – _the_ Impossible Girl, will win dinner with me at a venue of their choosing, all expenses paid. How’s that for a comp-” 

There was a painful, static crackling in his headphones, and then the entire studio went dark. Looking up, John took in the sight of Missy, scowling at him so furiously from her office that he was surprised the glass hadn’t shattered, and felt his stomach drop at the inevitable telling off that he was about to receive. She said something he couldn’t hear, then stalked into the studio and stood in the doorway, arms folded and a sour expression on her face. 

“What the _hell_ was that?” she asked, as he slid his headphones down to his neck and attempted to look suitably trite. “What do you think you’re playing at, John?” 

“I’m not playing at anything,” he muttered, noting the fury in her eyes and dropping his gaze to his lap in a careful gesture of submission. “What are _you_ playing at?” 

“Killed the studio power so I could bollock you,” she told him pragmatically. “Yanked the fuse. Your listeners are just getting the default station playlist; it won’t kill them. It’s not like there’s anyone actually listening to this drivel.” 

“Hey!” he protested, grasping at the opportunity to change the subject. “You always get weird when _I_ call it drivel!” 

“I’m employed to keep your spirits up.” 

“Funny, I was under the impression I was employing you to produce my show.” 

“Funny, I was under the impression the _station_ was employing me, to make sure you didn’t colossally cock up again. But oh look – you appear to be doing that anyway. How’s this going to make us look, John? How’s it going to make _you_ look?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied, feeling his pulse quicken as he realised what she was insinuating. “No idea at all.” 

“Jesus, John,” Missy cried, throwing her hands in the air. “You’ve already screwed up your public image once, there’s no way you can recover from another PR crisis…” 

“I’m not _having_ a PR crisis!” he argued. “I’m trying to do a good thing! Be a Good Samaritan, all that jazz!”

“And how do you think it sounds to your listeners, _hm_?” she affixed him with a stern look. “Older, fading DJ seeks out young, recently bereaved woman. Yes, that isn’t a creepy public image at all. You totally don’t look at all predatory. Not a bit. The tabloids are going to have a field day…” 

“Oh, bollocks,” he mumbled, realising the truth behind her words. “I didn’t think of that.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Missy snapped, then added more gently: “You’re a man. You can’t help it.” 

“What the hell am I meant to do?” he asked in despair, already dreading the inevitable headlines branding him a creep. “I can’t suddenly retract the bloody thing, and I can’t try and explain, ‘Oh no, I’m not being a creep, I just want to be nice,’ because that’ll just make me sound even weirder. Bollocks. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”

“You’ve made your bed,” Missy said tartly. “The only thing you can do now is sleep in it. Have you got an action plan about how this… campaign, whatever, is going to work?” 

“Nope.” 

“Right, then I’d suggest social media, and maybe a hashtag for the under-thirty age group. Make the whole thing sound appealing, OK? Make it seem fun, and light-hearted. And maybe give them something more to go on than just ‘she rang me up.’”

“Like?” 

“That she’s a teacher,” she suggested, and John smiled at the reminder. “There. A smile from you is a start. If I switch the power back on, try to save your sorry arse, OK?” 

“OK,” John agreed contritely, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the impending necessary damage control. “Thanks, Missy.” 

“Just…” she sighed. “Be careful, OK?” 

“I’ll try my best,” he promised, and Missy nodded, slipping back into her office and powering the studio back up. There was a _click_ as his headphones reconnected, and John took a deep breath before beginning in a cheery tone: “Sorry about that, folks, unexpected power outage at my end, but I’m assured by my producer that the station’s emergency playlist took over. Sorry you all had to suffer that,” he forced himself to chuckle. “I’ll make up for it later with some of your favourite tracks. Just a reiteration, in case you were distracted by the loss of my dulcet tones, that I’m running a campaign to find my mystery caller – one bereaved school teacher, who goes by the pseudonym ‘the Impossible Girl.’ If any of you are shrewd enough to find her, let us know via our social media or email, and if you’re Twitter-ly inclined, then use the hashtag ‘FindImpossible.’ The person who finds her gets dinner with me – and what a treat that is, so don’t all rush at once. Now, to make up for that, here’s the Dreamboys with _Shall We Dance._ ” 

He slid up a switch and settled back in his chair, content that he’d limited the damage done by his unplanned announcement, and eagerly anticipating a veritable flood of calls and tweets.

 

* * *

 

When John arrived home that night, he had to admit to himself he was disappointed. There had been no information on his mystery caller, and Missy had barely suppressed her glee at that fact. He’d known it was a long shot, but he’d banked on _someone_ in his listenership recognising her from his – albeit limited – description and calling in with a clue as to her identity or location. But instead the phones had stayed dead for the duration of the show, _Witching Hour Wisdom_ aside, and he’d felt his feeble hope die with each passing minute of silence. He’d known his listenership was select, but he hadn’t anticipated precisely how limited it was in terms of its age demographic or its reach. He hadn’t expected instant success, despite his misplaced optimism, but he’d banked on some results beyond people simply mocking the hashtag, and he as he stepped through the front door and into the cool embrace of his hall, he sighed deeply. 

“Hey,” he said quietly to the photograph at the bottom of the stairs, pulling his sleeve over his hand and resting his fingertips against the edge of the frame, wary of leaving smudges on the pristine glass. “You know, I’m trying to be nice, isn’t that a change? You’d like me being nicer to people. Always complained I was too Scottish and too sour,” he smiled sadly, feeling a need to justify himself. “I just want to help her, River. Is that so bad? Missy seems to think so, but I know you never put much stock in her opinion on matters. I only wish I could do the same.”

He sighed, his breath fogging over the glass and obscuring the face of his younger self. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tears beginning to track silently down his cheeks as he realised what his life had come to: alone in an enormous, empty house that had once rung with laughter, talking to a photograph about a girl he’d somehow accidentally pinned his hopes on. “I’m a daft old sod. Need sleep.”

He clenched his fists, offered a silent prayer to a god he half-believed in, and headed to bed in the hope that things might seem less grey tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the launch of his ill-thought-out campaign, John is disappointed by a lack of results. After bouncing ideas off Missy, he realises that he has a secret weapon to help him in his quest: the assembled presenters of Radio TARDIS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as promised, here is this weekend's second chapter of this fic, as a massive thank you to everyone who's reading it! I love you all.

John flung himself into a chair in Missy’s office the next week, his head in his hands as he groaned. “Why isn’t it working?” he complained, gesturing vaguely towards the nearest computer in what he hoped was an explanatory manner. “ _Why_?” 

“Why isn’t _what_ working?” Missy asked, arching an eyebrow at the despondent figure before her. “I’m going to need you to be more specific than that, John.”

“The campaign,” he elaborated, raising his head slightly and rubbing his face, grimacing at the three-day stubble that covered his chin and resolving to have a shave before the show. Assuming Missy hadn’t removed any of his personal grooming items from the drawer in his desk. “The Impossible Girl campaign.” 

“It _is_ working,” Missy told him tartly. “Kind of… not really. We’ve had three calls from would-be informants, but they’ve all turned out to be… well, piss-takers. And as for the Twitter hashtag… well, it turns out that your demographic doesn’t even really know how to use Twitter, so the hashtag was a waste of time. Your campaign is a drop in the ocean, John. No one cares about it. No one cares about _you_.” 

“Bloody hell, you really know how to lift a man’s spirits.” 

“Just trying to be honest with you.”

“Well, could you _not_? Could you not maybe… I don’t know, dress the truth up a bit more nicely?” 

“John, look, you aren’t going to find the poor little love. Can you just accept that and stop moping? I’m genuinely getting quite sick of the moping now. It’s taking the piss.” 

“For the hundredth time,” John snapped, irritated by the very insinuation that he was moping. “I am not _moping_. I’m…” 

“Yes?” 

“…dedicating myself to my work.” 

“You know, if you’d done that seven years ago, we wouldn’t have had a problem. We wouldn’t have _this_ problem.” 

“Yes, but seven years ago, the circumstances were somewhat extenuating,” John reminded her with a scowl. “You know, what with-” 

“Let’s not drag all that up again, mm?” Missy said sweetly, changing the subject with ease. “If you mope any further you’re going to burst into tears, and I’m not having you weeping all over my desk, poppet.” 

“Why are you such a bitch?” John asked, shooting her a dark look and wondering for the millionth time why he put up with her. “Honestly, why?” 

“It’s a natural talent,” Missy informed him snidely. “Just like your flair for dramatics. Besides, we’re _Scottish_ , John, it’s what we do, remember?” 

“Right,” he concurred, then clarified: “I’m not being dramatic though.” 

“You phoned me up at four am yesterday morning, buzzed off your face on espressos and ranting about the fallacy of Brexit. I thought you’d relapsed.” 

“Well,” he mumbled, chastised. “Scotland dinnae ask for it.” 

“Don’t you use the accent against me,” Missy glared at him. “I know we didn’t, pet, but independence from the bloody English is the best we can hope for, so stop worrying that pretty grey head about it, and maybe concentrate on finding this bird you’re so enamoured with.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to find her!” 

“Well, I don’t, but I’m not discussing politics with you. The last time we tried that, you walked out of Carluccio’s, left me with the bill, and didn’t speak to me for a week. Remember?” 

“Right,” he looked up at Missy and grimaced, resigning himself to an inevitable argument about the Impossible Girl. “So, what do we do?” 

“I’m having nothing to do with this crackpot scheme. I do keep telling you that.” 

“You also keep monitoring our social media for mentions of our mystery caller, so you can see why I might be confused about your investment in this plan.”

“I’m invested in saving your sorry arse from total ruin thanks to this girl,” Missy told him, rolling her eyes. “Ergo, I will help you find her, but only because I’m sure the major networks and papers will pick up on the story and we can paint the whole thing as some bullshit Good Samaritan business. Christ knows you need it; Rod Liddle’s written a whole column about you being a kind-of pervert.” 

“ _What_?!” he yelped, leaping up from his chair and feeling his stomach clench at the accusation. 

“He thinks you’re having another meltdown. Dug up some spectacular old photos of you, and decided you’re having a midlife crisis that involves you fetishising widows.” 

“I’m not fetishising anything!” John scowled, disturbed by the thought. “Or anyone.” 

“Aye, well, Rod Liddle is a c-” Missy coughed discreetly. “…omplete arsehole.” 

“Yes, he is,” he agreed, groaning and running his hands through his hair. “Look, how the hell do we avert a full-on PR disaster?” 

“John, I told you: find the girl. Find the girl and frame it as you being concerned and kind and invested in the wider community. That’s the only way you’re going to redeem yourself.” 

“But how the hell am I meant to do that when I can’t _find_ her?” he whined, beginning to feel disheartened at the lack of progress. “No one listens to the show – I’m really starting to get that.” 

“It’s not my fault you got bumped to the late slot.” 

“Wait,” John held up one hand, silencing Missy as a thought occurred to him, and he beamed in triumph. “I can call in favours.” 

“What do you mean ‘call in favours’?” she wrinkled her nose at the idea. “You don’t have any left.” 

“I do so!” 

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he scoffed. “Founding this radio station, for a start?”

“That doesn’t count as a favour.” 

“Does so.”

“Look…” Missy sighed, leaning back in her chair and giving him a warning look. “If you wanna try, then go ahead. On your own head, be it.”

 

* * *

 

John sidled into Studio One early on Tuesday morning, feeling less than human and clutching an oversized mug of coffee as though his life depended on it. It was an ungodly hour, as far as he was concerned at least, but needs must, and the breakfast team counted as a need. Across the room, seated on a cracked leather sofa that he was fairly sure used to belong to him, Martha and Mickey Jones were scanning over scripts for their morning show, occasionally murmuring to each other in low voices and scrawling notes in the margins of the paper. 

“Morning,” he mumbled, and their heads snapped up in unison, taking in the sight of him leaning in the doorway with twin looks of consternation. “Long time no see.”

“Bloody hell,” Mickey said in awe, getting to his feet and beaming at John, before crossing the room and pumping his hand up and down delightedly. “John Smith! What the hell are you doing here?! Thought late nights were more your forte now; surprised you’re even standing at this hour.”

“Coffee is a godsend,” John smiled tiredly, looking over to where Martha was perched on the edge of her seat. “I heard about your little one, congratulations. A boy, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she returned his smile, getting to her feet and crossing to her husband’s side. “Maxie Smith-Jones. He’s a terror, but worth it. How have you been?”

“Oh, not bad,” he said noncommittally, taking a long swig of his coffee. “Surviving. Touch sleep-deprived. Struggling to stay afloat in the late-night sea.” 

“All the alliterative adjectives, then?” Mickey grinned, and John felt himself relax, returning the younger man’s smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Don’t even try and pretend this is a social call.” 

“Am I really that transparent?” 

“Yup,” Martha acquiesced, tipping him a wink as she slipped her arm around Mickey’s waist and looked at John expectantly. “Come on, spill." 

“So… I have this slot on my show…” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, realisation dawning on her face. “Is this about that girl you’re looking for?”

“Yes,” John said with surprise. “How do you…” 

“I have Twitter, and my mum reads _The Sun_.”

“Ah,” he paused, casting his gaze to the floor as he realised that she’d probably seen the scathing column that Missy had mentioned the night before. “So, I’m guessing you probably think I’m a total creep?” 

“Don’t be daft,” she scoffed, looking to her husband and smiling warmly. “It’s sweet that you’re trying to help her, isn’t it, Mickey?” 

“Yeah!” the young man enthused, his tone sincere. “Not a lot of people care that much. That bloody columnist is just jealous.”

“Of?” 

“The rebellious fashion and superior music tastes of one John Smith, obviously,” Mickey chuckled. “You’re looking for her, right?” 

“Yeah,” John sighed. “It’s not going too well though.”

“Shit,” Martha’s eyes widened in horror. “She’s not… she hasn’t…” 

“No, no! Not as far as we know,” John assured her, the thought making his stomach clench uncomfortably. “Just… my show is rather niche. Not enough listeners to really make a difference.” 

“So, you want us to promote the campaign?” Mickey guessed, seeing John’s look of surprise and shrugging modestly. “You’re an open book, mate.” 

“Does Raz know about this?” Martha interjected, worry evident in her voice, and John tried to smile reassuringly at her. 

“Nope.”

“Are we gonna get fired for this?”

“Nah, not you two,” John tried to look braver than he felt. “Not _Mornings with Mickey and Martha’_ s golden couple. Me, possibly.”

“You founded this station!” 

“Yeah, and then I threw it all down the toilet and got relegated to a crappy slot,” John reminded them. “Look, it’ll be fine. It’s… altruism. I can’t get fired for altruism.” 

“My mum thinks it’s weird,” Martha admitted. “But then again, like I said; my mum reads _The Sun.”_

“How on earth did someone like that produce someone like you?” John wondered aloud, then noticed Martha’s raised eyebrow. “You know. A neo-liberal leftie type. I bet you read _The Guardian_.”

“Of course I read _The Guardian_ ,” she confirmed coolly, unruffled by his stereotyping. “I’m not enjoying its current bias towards Corbyn, but it’s not as one-tracked in its coverage of current affairs as the BBC.” 

“Isn’t she brilliant?” Mickey smiled fondly at her “She’s wasted as a breakfast show host, really, but what can I say? I’m one hell of a lucky man.” 

“You are,” John said quietly, his heart aching as he looked between the two and recognised the look of love he had once so enjoyed affixing his own wife with. “You take good care of her, every single day.” 

“Hey!” Martha protested half-heartedly. “Feminism!” 

“You know what I mean,” John sighed, his chest tightening, and he knew he needed to get out of the studio before he lost his composure. “Can you promote the campaign, then?”

“Sure,” Mickey said, looking at John oddly. “What-”

“Thanks. I’ve gotta go,” John blurted, stumbling back out through several sets of doors until he reached reception and muttering under his breath: “Idiot, idiot, idiot, can’t even look at a couple...”

“What?” asked the receptionist, eyeing him with concern. “You alright, John?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, clenching his fists and heading outside in search of fresh air. “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

As he stepped into Studio Four, John was almost certain that he felt the temperature plummet. The walls were draped in dark hangings and posters of bands that all looked inexplicably angry, and sat on a stool in the middle of the room was an equally angry looking young man with a half-shaved head, nodding his head as he drummed out a rhythm on his legs in time to a blasting heavy metal track. 

“Urm,” John cleared his throat awkwardly, and the youth spun round, his brows knitted together in a scowl as he hit pause. “Afternoon, Psi.” 

“Oh,” Psi looked disdainfully at John, contempt oozing from his very pores. “What’s up, old man?” 

“I don’t know,” John shot back, smiling as pleasantly as he was able. “What’s up, _Simon_?” 

“Oh, come on, you using that tone is a joke considering you’re wearing plaid trousers.” 

“Well that’s rich, coming from someone who only managed to get half a haircut and also thought that naming himself after a Greek letter would make him seem edgy.” 

“Says the reformed punk.”

“Says the person whose name is also technically a unit of pressure,” John noted Psi’s blank look with satisfaction. “Maybe I should start calling you Pounds Per Square Inch.” 

To his considerable surprise, the young man began to laugh, and extended a hand towards him in reconciliation. “Not bad, not bad,” he acquiesced, and John stepped forwards and shook the proffered hand apprehensively. “Not many people can keep up with my level of banter.” 

“Not banter,” John said at once, letting go of Psi’s hand. “I’m morally opposed to the word banter.”

“Riposte?” Psi offered, then smirked at John’s shocked expression. “Oh yeah, not just a pretty face.” 

John raised an eyebrow delicately. “Again with the half-a-haircut thing.” 

“Again with the plaid trousers,” Psi grinned, but without malice. “What can I do for you, my dude?” 

“I’m not your dude.”

“Whatever,” Psi rolled his eyes. “You’re here about the girl, right?”

“How the…”

“Word travels fast, John,” Psi said by way of explanation. “That _is_ why you’re here, right? You want me to promote your campaign to find her?” 

“Which camp are you in?” 

“Camp hetero, why?” 

“Ha ha,” John deadpanned, unimpressed by the young man’s cockiness. “You know what I mean. Am I a creep, or a saint?” 

“I think you’re a ledge,” Psi said with seriousness, then noticed John’s blank look and elaborated: “Leg _end_. Going after some chick you’ve only spoken to on the phone. Pure silver fox. Proper iconic.” 

“I’m not…” John scowled, deciding to change the subject rather that get involved in another verbal sparring match. “Do people even listen to your show?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“The bat cave vibes and generally screaminess of your music taste indicates otherwise.”

“Oh, please,” Psi scoffed. “That stuff doesn’t make it onto the radio. Have you never listened to me doing my thing?” 

“Once or twice,” John lied, adding: “A while back.” 

Psi affixed him with a look of profound disbelief. “Look, I’ll promote your campaign… _if_ you listen to my show at least once. It’s easy, they’re all online. If you don’t know how to access the Internet, ask Missy.” 

“You cheeky… deal.” 

“ _And_ …”

“You can’t have more than one condition, that’s taking the piss!” 

“Why? Everything else in life does. Most businesses have entire lists, but I’m not that demanding. My second and final condition is thus: you’re going to go and ask Journey, right?” 

“Yeah, why?” John narrowed his eyes, sensing where the conversation was heading. 

“She thinks her show has a stupid name.” 

“It does. _Journey Home_ is a distinctly ridiculous name.” 

“So, speak to Raz and ask him to let her change it to something that doesn’t suck.” 

“Why are you so bothered about Journey’s show getting rebranded?”

“Because it’s kind of difficult to shag her when all she does is bitch about it. Consider it a joint condition from myself and her.”

John shuddered. “Fine. I’ll speak to Raz about it.” 

“Well then, my dude. We have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next chapter: a wild Clara appears...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara had wanted a quiet evening in with her flatmate and wine. It was just a shame that Amy had other ideas, and a very specific topic of conversation in mind; namely, one John Smith, and his _very_ determined campaign to track Clara down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is being uploaded a little late in the day - AO3 was down! As ever, huge love to everyone who has commented or left kudos. I love you all.

Clara sank down on the sofa, a glass of white wine held aloft in one hand and a large bag of Doritos in the other. Beside her, Amy raised her eyebrows in incredulity, looking from the crisps to the glass to Clara with a look of disapproval. 

“Clara, that is a really disgusting combination,” she warned, wrinkling her nose at Clara’s combination of evening necessities. “Why would you ruin wine with Doritos? Or Doritos with wine?”

“You say that like they aren’t both truly exceptional food groups in their own right,” Clara protested, setting her class down on the coffee table and snuggling into the pile of cushions she had artfully arranged prior to fetching snacks. “Why not combine the awesomeness?” 

“Because Tangy Cheese Doritos do not belong with Sauvignon Blanc. You are committing a food and wine crime.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.” 

“Look, it’s not like it’s the fanciest of wines ever,” Clara reasoned. “It was on offer in Tesco. I wouldn’t do this with like… actual French wine in France. Although I will point out that I am, technically, eating cheese and wine, because I am cultured as hell. Kind of.” 

“Good to know,” Amy reached over and cracked open a beer, narrowing her eyes at the can in a silent warning. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

“I still can’t believe you drink beer.” 

“I still can’t believe you don’t.”

“Isn’t it a bit…” Clara paused, searching for the right adjective. “Blokey?” 

“Clara Oswald – feminist extraordinaire, advocate of women’s rights – thinks alcohol is gendered,” Amy raised her eyebrows. “Beer is beer.” 

“Isn’t drinking beer a bit… _Gone Girl_ though?” Clara asked, ripping open the bag of crisps and extracting a single Dorito, examining it with a critical eye before shoving it in her mouth. 

“Are you accusing me of being a truly deranged woman who accuses men of sexual assault and frames my – non-existent – husband for my own murder?” 

“No,” Clara rolled her eyes and adopted a deadpan tone that was thick with sarcasm. “I’m accusing you of being a Cool Girl.” 

“Beer-drinking, burger-eating, likes football and threesomes?” Amy gave Clara a withering look. “Girls like that don’t exist.” 

“You like beer. And burgers.”

“Whoops, you got me. Now I guess I have to get hitched and fake my own death.” 

“Yeah, maybe don’t do that,” Clara laughed, the sarcastic tone abandoned. “Although you could do much worse than Rory.” 

“See, talking about men is so much nicer than you accusing me of being a psychopath.” 

“I was not _accusing_ you, you bitch.” 

“I know,” Amy wrapped an arm around her flatmate and pressed a fond kiss to her cheek. “My snide little partner in crime. You’re just… _such_ an English teacher sometimes.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“Not a bad thing,” Amy said defensively. “Just sometimes all the literature references get tiring.” 

“You love them, really.” 

“Most of the time. While you think of some more, I’m going to drink my beer.” 

“You do that,” Clara teased, shoving another Dorito in her mouth and chewing it with an excessive amount of noise. “I’ll just be here with my Doritos and wine. You know, consuming wine and cheese, like a civilised human being.” 

“You enjoy that.” 

“Will do,” Clara took a sip from her glass and smiled, blissfully. “If we can’t talk about books, what can we talk about?”

“Men?” 

Clara wrinkled her nose at the thought. “Fine,” she grimaced, adding in what she hoped was a self-deprecating tone: “Not like mine died…” 

“Don’t,” Amy warned. “Don’t, or you’ll get weepy and drunk and end up sobbing until you throw up, and I’m not dealing with that. Not again.” 

“I will not get weepy and drunk. I just want to experience romance vicariously through hearing about you and Rory and all the disgustingly cute dates you go on.” 

“And our sex life?” 

“Let’s not push things,” Clara made a face. “You guys are sickeningly cute, you know. I bet he pops the question soon.” 

“Oh, we know we’re cute,” Amy laughed, taking a sip of her beer and looking pleased at the compliment. “He’s a dork, but somehow romantic. I think all those stupid, overblown comics help with that.” 

“Remember when him and Danny dressed up for Comic Con?” Clara asked, smiling fondly at the memory of the two men in matching outfits. “And we had that stupid WhatsApp group and they kept sending us nerdy references… and Danny kept sending me voice notes telling me he loved me in different superhero accents…” 

“Don’t get weepy.” 

“I am not getting weepy!” Clara complained, shoving a handful of crisps into her mouth to detract from the issue at hand. “I’m _reminiscing._ I’m allowed to do that. Hello, tragically widowed teacher. It’s in the job description.”

“Just don’t start crying. Please for the love of god, no crying. I don’t think I have any tissues on me, and that eyeliner stains.”

“How would you know?” 

“My flannel shirt has never fully recovered from the day after the funeral.” 

“You’re being _mean_.” 

“No, I’m doing what you ordered me to, which is stopping you from weeping and wailing all over me, the flat, and yourself. I believe your exact words were: ‘If I start looking like I’m gonna cry, tell me to sort my shit out.’”

“Fine. But why are you always so _bossy_ about things? I’m the teacher, that’s definitely my job.” 

“Because I’m a bitch,” Amy poked her tongue out at her friend. “Do you really think Rory is going to propose?” 

“Almost definitely.” 

“But it’s been _years_.” 

“Well, it’s taking so long because Rory is _the_ most socially awkward man I’ve ever met. I bet he cocks up the proposal and drops the ring. At least once.” 

“Don’t even joke about that,” Amy groaned. “He honestly would do that. Almost definitely down a drain, or into food, or off a bridge.” 

“Food would be OK,” Clara reasoned. “You could just lick it off.” 

“This is true,” Amy acquiesced. “Depends on the food though. Speaking of which, pass the Doritos.” 

Clara handed over the bag obediently, taking a long sip of her wine. “You know,” she said measuredly, taking another sip as she thought. “I trust your judgement. Based on the fact that you picked Rory, and he’s great. So, when I feel up to getting another man, you can vet the candidates for me.”

“Yeah?” Amy shot her flatmate a sideways glance. “You know, I reckon you’ve got a candidate.” 

“What do you mean?” Clara asked, frowning at the smug look that Amy was giving her. “No I don’t.” 

“Oh, please. Like you don’t know all about that campaign that that weird DJ… what’s his name… John Smith is running to find you.” 

“What…” Clara swallowed, fishing desperately for a lie and settling on the somewhat weak: “That’s not me.” 

“Clara, he’s looking for a recently bereaved teacher.” 

“How do you even _know_ about this?”

“Rory listens to _Journey Home_. Although it’s getting a new name, thank Christ. That Smith guy is going all out on this, you know.”

“It might not even be me,” Clara mumbled. “It might be someone else.”

“Except I listened to the podcasts, and that was definitely you that phoned in.” 

Clara groaned, putting her hands over her face. “For god’s sake,” she whined. “He isn’t being fun or cute, it’s really bloody creepy!” 

“I know.” 

“It’s on everything,” Clara continued, her voice taking on a hint of panic. “It’s in the papers, it’s on Twitter. People are going to realise it’s me sooner or later… and then they’ll tell him, and god knows what’ll happen then. What if he murders me and dumps my body in the Thames? What if he wants to indoctrinate me into some kind of cult? What if he wants me to have sex with him?” 

“Clara, I sincerely doubt he’d murder you. It would be the worst crime of the decade,” Amy patted her flatmate’s shoulder reassuringly. “There would really only be one suspect, so he wouldn’t get away with it. Don’t you worry about that.”

“But if _you_ worked it out…” 

“I’m not going to tell him,” Amy said soothingly. “Nor is Rory.”

“Rory knows?!” 

“Rory, contrary to popular opinion, is not an idiot.” 

Clara groaned again. “Men are _weird._ Maybe John thinks I’d be grateful for this whole shebang,” she scoffed. “Like… I was grateful he helped me, but then that bitch of a producer told me where to get off, and-” 

“Wait, what?” Amy asked in confusion. “His _producer_ said that?”

“Yeah, she told me to stop bothering him, so I did, and now… this.” 

“Oh my god, it’s like… that is _fucked up_ ,” Amy exclaimed, with somewhat more glee than was strictly appropriate. “This is like… a smear campaign, or some shit. Babe, this is harassment! It’s full on harassment… revenge harassment. That’s totally a thing, right?” 

“Why would he want revenge on me, though?” Clara asked, chewing her lip. “I didn’t _do_ anything.” 

“Other than phone him up a few times, which I guess isn’t that bad.” 

“Maybe it’s all just some sick joke,” Clara reasoned. “Or maybe it’s going to turn out to be some Banksy-level art piece about the pervasiveness of social influence.” 

“That or he hates you, and he really wants to ruin your life for reasons that are beyond my comprehension,” Amy paused, taking a swig of her beer. “Or indeed, the comprehension of any normal human being.” 

“He’s _not_ a normal human being,” Clara noted. “He had that breakdown, remember? When we were at uni?”

“Oh yeah,” Amy frowned slightly. “Wasn’t he a wino for a while?” 

“Well…” Clara forced a smile, determined not to let herself get worked up. “Whatever the Scottish version of that is.” 

“What’s that meant to mean?” 

“I have never met a Scot who drinks wine. Other than you. So, he’d be a… whisky-o.”

“You’re insane,” Amy said with a giggle. “But probably, yeah.” 

“So, an insane Scottish DJ is hunting for me with the full but awful might of the British tabloid press behind him, and I’m hiding in a flat in Shoreditch with a ginger, beer-drinking model,” Clara sighed, rolling her head back to rest on the sofa cushions and realising abruptly that she was tipsier than anticipated. “I’m doomed.”

“Excuse me, and occasionally Rory.”

“A ginger, beer-drinking model, and a nurse who doesn’t pay rent.”

“He pays bills!” 

“Fair point. Still doomed though. What are you going to do when the press come calling to cart me away for my forced marriage to John Smith? Strangle them to death with your ridiculously toned thighs?” 

“That’s an option,” Amy acquiesced. “Don’t sound so bitter about my legs.” 

“Why would I be bitter about your long, slender legs that go on for miles?” Clara asked sweetly. “When I have little tiny stumps?” 

“They are not _stumpy_ ,” Amy argued. “They’re in proportion to you, and you’re petite.” 

“Short. I’m short, you’re tall; I’m the potato one, you’re the fit one. I get it. I’m dying alone.” 

“You are not dying alone,” Amy chided. “For god sake, this is why you shouldn’t have wine.”

“I am definitely dying alone,” Clara repeated with conviction. “Except for cats. I will have many hundreds of cats. I will be the crazy cat lady of Shoreditch. Or Blackpool. It depends on whether I want to do that weird old person thing of going home to die.” 

“You will not be a cat lady. You found Danny, didn’t you?” Amy reminded her. “And he was a gentleman. He never, ever, ever looked at my boobs or my bum or my legs, which was a nice change from the boyfriend before him, and do you know why he didn’t do that? Cos he was bonkers about you. Absolutely crackers about your loud, bossy self. Therefore, all you’ve got to do is find another bloke who prefers brunettes to gingers. Shouldn’t be difficult, that’s basically _all men_.” 

“You’re too pretty,” Clara complained, only half-listening to her friend’s reasoning and instead concentrating on slumping sideways until she was roughly horizontal. “It’s not fair.” 

“Right, what isn’t fair is the fact that you’re short, and you don’t metabolise alcohol properly, and I have to deal with that.” 

“So, you agree I’m short?” 

“ _Everyone_ is short compared to me,” Amy pointed out. “Now, you are tiny, and you are weepy, and you are pissed. You are also, in no particular order, going to find a man, not die alone, and not get hunted down by an insane Scottish DJ, because if he comes knocking then I will… I don’t know, model him to death, and Rory will write the death certificate and say he died of a heart attack when he saw how fit you are. No one is going to rat you out, OK? Neither of us want this crazy Scottish dude to find you. And that’s coming from like, the only other Scottish person in London, who really would like to meet a countryman, but not if he’s clinically deranged and stalking my flatmate.” 

“Why are you using so many words? Too many words. Lots and lots of them.” 

“Because I’m on a diet for that stupid shoot next week and apparently no-carbs and alcohol don’t mix well. So, we’re both pissheads. No change there, Clara Oswald. Just… be a star and roll over slightly, then we can lie here until the room stops spinning, OK?” 

“You ate carbs,” Clara mumbled, shifting over on the sofa so that Amy could lie beside her. “You ate like, five Doritos.” 

“They’re cheese flavour,” the redhead told her. “They don’t count as carbs. Unless it’s to absorb alcohol, in which case, I will be eating a lot of Doritos between now and midnight.”

“You’re really kind to me, you know that, Amy Pond? You’re pretty and you’re kind and you’ve got a really hot accent.”

“I do know that, yes. You tell me every time you get pissed, babe. Now go to sleep, you drunken mess. Sleep tight, don’t let the crazy Scottish DJs bite.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is already feeling discouraged by his campaign's lack of success when Missy announces that the boss wants to see him. And it's not good news...

“Nothing… nothing… nothing…” John muttered to himself as he clicked through tabs on his computer, scowling as he flicked between his email inbox, Twitter and Facebook. “And… oh look, a big fat nothing.” 

“Stop whinging,” Missy told him firmly, lowering her newspaper to shoot him a glare. “It’s putting me off the crossword.”

“Since when did you do crosswords?” John asked, raising his head to affix her with an incredulous stare. “Or read the paper in general?” 

“Since I met a lovely young thing in a bar last week, and realised I need to look intellectual enough to keep his interest,” she smiled wolfishly, and John rolled his eyes. “What?” 

“How old is this ‘lovely young thing’?” he asked, already half-knowing what the answer would be. “Please tell me he’s age appropriate and that you’re being metaphorical. Please.” 

“He’s twenty-four,” Missy purred, evidently self-satisfied about this fact, and John put his head in his hands. “He’s a strapping young chap, not to mention bitingly intelligent. He’s doing a PhD in anthropology.” 

“Missy,” John groaned, scowling at his producer. “You think I’m a creep for trying to find the Impossible Girl for purely good-hearted reasons, yet you’re trying to get in the pants of someone half your age? You are aware that there’s some hypocrisy there, right?” 

“Of course,” she concurred with an easy shrug. “Hypocrisy, amazing hair, and really good sex.” 

“Jesus wept… why have you already slept with him?!” 

“Because he asked,” Missy said, as though it should be obvious to John. “And who was I to deny the poor little love the full Missy experience?” 

“Christ, you sound like his mother. Please tell me there isn’t any weird… I don’t even want to know, actually, because I might throw up. I really would rather just bleach my brain of all knowledge of… whatever his name is. Thingy.” 

“Since you didn’t ask, it’s Sebastian.” 

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” John muttered, suppressing another eye-roll and adopting an affected, upper-class accent. “Did he go to Eton? Is he friends with the Queen?” 

“Don’t stereotype,” Missy snapped, and John felt triumphant that he’d managed to push her buttons. “You’re in no position to judge, anyway, John Smith.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you sound like a murder suspect. On the plus side, at least the police won’t have to obscure your identity once you’ve murdered the Impossible Girl and dumped her body in a shallow grave. Probably in a public park, you lack the imagination for anything more covert.” 

“Oh my god,” he complained, aghast at the very suggestion. “Why the hell-” 

“Rod Liddle’s really got a bee in his bonnet about you,” Missy informed him, waving the paper in John’s general direction to illustrate her point. “That was today’s suggestion. He’s gunning for you to have a psychiatric assessment.” 

“ _He_ needs a psych assessment, if he’s going around accusing celebrities of being serial killers.” 

“Ooh, are you a serial killer now?” Missy looked up at John with interest. “Who else have you murdered?” 

“It’ll be you in a minute if you don’t shut up, shortly followed by Rod Liddle, and then whatever wanker edits _The Sun._ ” 

“Tony Gallagher.” 

“How do you _know_ that?” 

“Because I issued a cease and desist order to his paper this morning,” Missy mumbled, her tone almost embarrassed. “That OK?” 

“That’s…” John blinked at her in surprise at her unexpected good deed. “Yeah, that’s… really nice of you, actually. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Missy cast her gaze back down to her crossword and filled in several answers in bashful silence, and John turned his attention back to their email inboxes, trawling through the spam folders to amuse himself. He was halfway down a list of emails from Russian women seeking British husbands when Missy spoke again. “By the way, Raz wants to see you in his office. ASAP.” 

“What?!” John’s head snapped up at once and he surveyed his producer with something akin to panic. “Why?” 

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s related to the Impossible Girl business. Before you try and lie to me about having cleared it with him, I know you didn’t. You went and grovelled about Journey so you could get Psi onside, but you neglected to mention your creepy little campaign because you’re functionally an idiot. It’s fine, John, I know you. Just… go and see him. And try not to get fired, I’m surprisingly fond of you.” 

“You’re fond of your wage packet, you mean.” 

“That also,” Missy sighed, putting her paper down and looking up at John with concern. “Just… go.” 

“Fine,” John got to his feet and stretched, trying to build up his courage and delay the inevitable. “Wish me luck.” 

“Good luck. Don’t let him rile you.” 

“When have I ever-” 

“Hackney Empire, 2010.” 

“Right. Fair point. I’ll keep my temper,” he took a deep breath, determined to maintain a calm facade. “Back in a bit.”

John wandered out of the studio at the most leisurely pace he could manage, forsaking the lift in favour of ascending the numerous flights of stairs to Raz’s office. The enormous space was located on the top floor of the building in order to optimise both the natural light and the view – a fact he was acutely aware of, given that it had once been _his_ office, and that he was therefore responsible for the wide panoramic windows that provided glorious views of London skyline. John sighed, thinking of his dingy, cramped basement studio, and he felt – not for the first time – a stab of resentment towards Raz, then a wave of self-loathing for his own idiotic, self-destructive actions; actions that had almost lost him everything he’d worked for, and forced him out of the office he had so carefully designed for himself, down into the depths of the building with only Missy for company. 

John reached the top floor, his legs burning from the exertion of climbing the stairs, and once he’d got his breath back, he pasted a smile onto his face and knocked on his former office’s door. 

“Come in!” 

John stepped inside apprehensively, raising his eyebrows as he always did when surveying what Raz had done to his once classically-designed office. The wood panelling John had favoured had long since been replaced with glass and chrome; the old PC had been substituted for a Mac, and the tasteful carpet had been ripped up, cold ice-white lino taking its place. To one side, grey leather sofas surrounded a low coffee table strewn with music magazines, and jazz played quietly over hidden speakers at a volume that was not quite low enough to ignore. Looking around for the office’s occupant, John found him leaning against a pool table that had definitely not been there several days before, chalking his cue and nodding his head in time to the nondescript background music that to John’s ears sounded tinny. 

“Ah, John,” he said with a level of warmth that sounded distinctly forced. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?” 

“You wanted to see me,” John all but growled, trying to keep his temper in response to Raz’s overt display of wealth. “Or so I hear.” 

“Yes,” Raz concurred, propping his cue against the pool table and crossing back to his desk, where he sank into a distinctly uncomfortable-looking chair and clicked something on the screen of his Mac, frowning at what he found. John perched on the extreme edge of a plastic chair opposite his boss, clenching his fists in his lap as he waited for him to continue. “It’s about this little… campaign of yours.” 

“About that…” 

“John, you are aware of the damage you’re doing to the station, I assume?” 

“I… what?” 

“The press is starting to turn on us, John. They think you’re a creep and that the station is facilitating that. This entire campaign – whatever your motivations might be – is going to destroy you.” 

“I refute that assertion.” 

“I don’t. You’ve already thrown away most of what you’ve worked for, John, and I don’t want you to lose anything else. The station. This office. Your w-” 

“I did not _throw her away,_ ” John said in a low voice, his tone dangerous as he stared sullenly at Raz over the desk that divided them. “You know what happened. You know that it was the catalyst for… everything. Besides, what do you care? You got my job, didn’t you? My job, my office, my salary… you took everything I had, and then had the gall to tear it all down, rebuild it from scratch, and take the credit.” 

“You handed it to me on a plate.” 

“I was falling apart.” 

“You were an alcoholic.” 

“And you know why!” John snapped, his temper flaring at Raz’s use of the word he so despised. “You know why, and yet you kicked me when I was down.” 

“John,” Raz said, his voice gentler than before, and John was surprised to see guilt on his face. “You know better than all of us that the show must go on. We couldn’t let the station fall apart, so we tried to carry on without you. And do you know why we did that? We did that for you. We knew you couldn’t stand to see the station go under, not when everything else was already gone.” 

“So, what? Am I supposed to thank you for usurping me?” 

“Stop it,” Raz said sharply, but John couldn’t help himself – his boss riled him; always had, always would. He wasn’t in the mood to listen and pretend to be understanding. “I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself, John. You’re a colleague-” 

“Did I get demoted from ‘friend’?” 

“-and I don’t want to see you go under. I know why you care about this girl, but you can’t use the station as your own personal promotional machine. You can’t get everyone here to promote this frankly bewildering campaign!” 

“Why not?” John asked sulkily. “It’s a big station, with a wide reach.” 

“Yes,” Raz concurred, opening another window on his Mac. “A big reach in the _south_. This girl doesn’t sound like she’s from the south at all. You might be barking up the wrong tree entirely.” 

“What do you mean?” John asked, not understanding.

“You Scots,” Raz rolled his eyes. “She’s northern, idiot. Her accent is… I don’t know, I’d have to ask a northerner, but she isn’t from down here, she isn’t from our main listenership. God knows they’ve never liked Radio TARDIS up north, and you know how communities defend their own… you’re alienating an entire swathe of the population, John. You’re losing us an entire demographic.” 

“‘John Smith: War with the North’ sounds pretty impressive if you ask me,” John reasoned, determined to be obnoxious rather than let Raz see how worried his revelation had made him. “Nothing the Scots haven’t been doing for thousands of years anyway.” 

“Very funny,” Raz deadpanned. “Hilarious. Look, John, if you want to find her, that’s on you.” 

“I can’t do this alone! Come on, help a friend out. Please, Raz. Sorry for being a miserable sod, OK? Just… please.”

“John…” 

“Please. I can’t… I don’t want her to end up like me,” John confessed, his voice little more than a whisper. “I want to help her. Think of the PR coup if I can do that – think how good the station will look. A positive force for good. A machine for social change.” 

“You and your bloody saviour complex!” 

“It’s not… look, I want to help her. Is that so bad?” 

“It is when it’s costing us listeners, yes.”

“Wait… it’s… really?” 

“Really. The tabloids are having a field day over you, and people are starting to think you really are a creep. Not helped by… well, everything that happened before, really.” 

“Well, the tabloids are doing half of our job for us. For free. Promoting the campaign without realising. Always a win.” 

“John, this isn’t _funny_!” Raz exclaimed. “You’re going to drag us all under! You, me, Missy, the entire station…” 

“Raz, just…” John attempted to look contrite. “One more week. Please. One more week of the campaign, and then we can pull it and claim… oh, I don’t know, I’ll think of something. That’s all I ask for, mate. Please, just one more week.” 

“One more week,” Raz concurred wearily, and John felt like punching the air in triumph. “That is your absolute limit. And if this all goes arse over tit, then it’s your neck on the line.” 

“Fine.” 

“And you’re paying your own legal fees.” 

“I’m what now?” 

“Missy’s taking legal action against the press, John. But it’s really more about you than about the station, so… you’re picking up the tab, I presume?” Raz affixed John with the kind of look that insinuated this was a direct order, not a question, and John groaned inwardly. 

“Who’s she using?” 

“Noble and Temple.” 

“Fine,” John grimaced, resigning himself to this one small thing if it meant he could keep Raz sweet. “I will pay my own legal fees. But don’t try to pretend that you aren’t enjoying the thought of _The Sun_ getting a right royal kick up the arse.” 

Raz smiled for a fleeting instant, then adopted a stern look. “Go on, back to your studio now,” he insisted, making little shooing motions with his hands, and John could tell that he was envisioning _The Sun_ getting put in its place. “One week. Go.” 

“Thank you,” John said with gratitude, smiling at his boss for the first time in months as he got to his feet. “Really, thank you.” 

“ _Go_ ,” Raz repeated, breaking into a grin. “Shoo.” 

John all but skipped out to the corridor, relieved to have escaped relatively unscathed from the encounter, and buoyed by Raz’s promise. 

One week.

Miracles could happen in one week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Raz is Rassilon, and no, I regret nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now faced with a looming deadline, John decides to seek external help in locating the Impossible Girl. Which is how he comes to find himself sat in a cafe with two highly-caffeinated experts, discussing things he doesn't fully understand and praying for a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a loooooong one! Enjoy series 10 tonight everyone! xx

John looked around the small coffee shop surreptitiously, trying not to look as suspicious as he felt he must appear. He sipped his coffee, already regretting his decision not to have decaf, and slid lower in his seat, adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and attempting to blend in. 

“Are you _trying_ to look like a criminal?” a familiar voice asked as a tall blonde woman brushed past John and sank into the seat opposite him with a grin. “Because, frankly, you look shady as hell.” 

“Kate,” he said, unable to contain his smile and forcing himself to sit upright. “My bad. Is it the sunglasses?” 

“No, it’s the fact you look like a man about to carry out a drug deal, and trust me, I’d know,” she grinned, tilting her head to the side as she appraised him. “Although the shades don’t help.” 

“The shades are because the press remains convinced that I’m a supreme creep, and if they papped me having lunch with a moderately attractive woman, I’d only slide further up the lecher scale. And I’m sure they could report that I’d slid parts of me somewhere else, too.” 

“You think I’m moderately attractive?” Kate asked, raising an eyebrow, and John turned a fiery shade of red before she burst out laughing. “I’m kidding.” 

“Well,” he stammered, wrong-footed by her comment. “I. Urm. You’re not… urm… You’re… nice looking. I suppose.” 

“Stop digging,” she told him fondly, patting his hand and then pulling away as a waitress set a mug of coffee that seemed bucket-sized on the table in front of her. “Thanks.” 

“Kate, how much coffee do you require to function?” John asked with incredulity, as she began to tear open packets of sugar and deposit them into the mountain of froth that topped her mug, stirring it vigorously as she did so. “How do you sleep?” 

“Ah, the Met never sleeps,” she retorted evasively, tipping him a wink. “Although personally, I generally sleep on the sofa, if I’m honest. The coffee thing is kind of balanced by all the braining.” 

“Right, that isn’t a word. You don’t need any more coffee.” 

“I do so. Stop being a pain in the arse. You haven’t phoned me in months, and then all of a sudden, just when things are getting a bit tasty, you call me. One: what’s going on; and two: no, I’m not having sex with you.” 

John choked on his coffee, spluttering as Kate smirked. “I…” he wheezed, trying to clear his airway. “I’m not… we’re not…”

“I’m kidding,” she assured him, taking a large gulp of her own coffee and then wiping her top lip with her index finger. “Seriously, though. Do you need us to intervene with the press?” 

“No, no,” John managed, taking another sip of coffee to try and lubricate his vocal cords. “Missy has that in hand. It’s more… well. How much do you know?” 

“You’re essentially all but stalking a girl who phoned in to your radio show, if the press is to be believed. If not, then you’re doing something nice for a stranger, which sounds more like the man I grew up with.” 

“You make yourself sound _old_ , phrasing it like that.” 

“I am old!” she protested. “Don’t even think about saying that I’ll always be a little girl to you, because I will hit you with something, or make you drink more coffee, and you will not be impressed.” 

“I used to babysit you,” John grumbled, resisting the urge to pout. “You always will be a little girl to me. Bite me.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Comments like that really just lend themselves to me making lewd comments about you, you do know that, right?” 

“Shut up. I don’t even want to entertain the thought.” 

“You said I was moderately attractive!” 

“Not in a weird way!” 

“Oh, John,” Kate laughed, surveying him over the top of her mug. “Winding you up is such a joy.”

“You always were gobby,” he muttered, casting his gaze down to his own drink. “Ever since you were knee-high to a grasshopper.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me taser you for getting all maudlin and sentimental. If you haven’t called me here because you’ve turned into Public Perv No.1, and I’m victim two, then what’s going on?” 

“I am not a-” 

“I _know_ , John,” Kate smiled at him, and he felt himself relax fractionally. “You’re a good man. Abrasive, sure, but a good man. Always have been. I don’t believe a word that those godawful rags are writing about you, so stop looking so panicked, and tell me what you need.” 

“A favour,” he admitted tersely. “Probably not a legal one.”

“And you’re proposing this in a coffee shop… why?” 

“Because it seemed less dodgy than coming to your house, or requesting a meeting at work.” 

“This is true,” she concurred, taking another sip of her coffee and drumming her free hand on the table in a way that John considered indicative of excessive coffee consumption. “So, what’s the favour? I’m afraid I can’t have anyone murdered for you. Sorry.” 

“Damn,” John chuckled, then paused as he tried to work up the courage to ask her what he needed. “So… this girl who’s been phoning me…” 

“The bereaved one that everyone thinks you’re trying to shag?” 

“That’s the one,” John shuddered, disgusted by the insinuation. “Well… I need help finding her.” 

“I was under the distinct impression that you had an entire radio station helping you to do that.” 

“I do. But I’ve got a deadline to work to, and if I don’t find her by then… well, I have a problem, in that Raz is pulling the campaign on Saturday if I don’t find her by then.”

“So, you’ve got three days. A lot can happen in three days.” 

“Kate, it’s been two weeks. If nothing has happened in two weeks, I sincerely doubt that it will happen in three days.” 

“You never know,” she reasoned, and he appreciated her efforts at trying to keep him calm. “Something might turn up at the eleventh hour, and wouldn’t that be exciting?” 

“Kate, this is my life. Nothing ever happens at the eleventh hour except death and misery.” 

“You’re getting more pessimistic in your old age, you know that?” 

“You might have mentioned it to me every year since you were four, yeah.”

“Look, what are you asking me to do, John?” Kate sat up a little straighter, snapping into professional mode. “Out with it.” 

“Can you trace a call back to its source?”

“To an address, you mean?” 

“Exactly, yeah.” 

“Of course we can,” Kate preened slightly as she made the admission. “Easy as you like.” 

“Even a withheld number?” John asked, his tone hopeful, and Kate’s face fell as she realised what he was asking. 

“John…” 

“Kate, please. Just… could you? Hypothetically?”

“We could, but only if we had access to the handset or system to which the calls were made. Which I’m guessing Missy is in control of, and I’m guessing she’s not going to like this plan. At all.” 

“Kate…”

“Not to mention the fact it’s totally immoral, _plus_ a waste of police time and resources, which is technically illegal, and therefore I could get fired.”

“But…” 

“John, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” she sighed sadly, evidently regretting having to say no to his request, but still he found himself feeling disappointed. “Missy would kill me, my boss would kill me, and my dad would turn in his grave.” 

“Your dad would think it was a good deed.”

“I’m not having this argument, John. I can’t help you, I’m sorry. If you want to find her, you’re going to have to… wait, I might have an idea.” 

“What?” John froze, looking around in a panic and instinctively fearing the worst. “What is it?” 

“Look, I can’t help you, but we have a consultant we use… she’s a social media analyst, she works near here,” Kate extracted her phone from her pocket and scrolled through it as she spoke, her thumbs tapping away at keys as she continued: “I’ll invite her over and you can meet with her. She’s a bit geeky, but she’s got a good heart, and she’ll do everything she can to help you out.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Osgood.” 

“That’s a weird-as-hell name, not going to lie.” 

“Yeah, like John Smith isn’t weird.” 

“Fair point,” John concurred. “Is she any good?” 

“The best,” Kate’s phone chimed, and she beamed. “She’s on her way over. The benefit of these techy types – they’re flexible in their work hours. John, I’ve got to dash – meetings with the Commissioner, and we’re in the middle of an investigation – but it was lovely to see you. You must absolutely call me more than once every six months, OK? _And_ we should do dinner sometime – you need to come by and meet Jaq, you’re going to love her.” 

“I will,” John promised, standing up to embrace Kate for old time’s sake. “Look after yourself.” 

“Are you doing hugging now?” Kate asked, bemused, but returning the hug nonetheless. “The paparazzi will have a field day: ‘DJ hugs moderately attractive woman.’” 

“Hush, you,” he chuckled. “And get off with you; you have meetings to buzz your way through, coffee devil.” 

“Wait until you meet Osgood,” Kate cautioned. “I will look like a sane, barely caffeinated individual.” 

“Great,” John grimaced, but Kate only offered him a tight, reassuring smile. “I’ll call you about dinner, OK?” 

“Excellent,” Kate said. “Be good.”

With that, she was gone, the coffee shop door rattling shut behind her as John sank back into his seat and ordered a second coffee, purely because it seemed like one of those days. It arrived at his table, and twenty minutes later, a slender woman wearing an impossibly long scarf, glasses, and a motley collection of clothing stepped inside, surveyed the interior with a practiced look, and then plonked herself down in front of John. 

“John Smith?” she asked, depositing a high-tech laptop, iPad, Surface, two phones, a notebook, pen and pile of change on the table in front of her, then beginning to unwind her scarf. 

“Urm,” John said, eyeing the stack of technology warily. He was fairly sure that the collective worth of the goods before him equated to well over a year’s salary. “Yeah. Osgood, I presume?” 

“That’s me,” she enthused, beckoning over the waitress, handing over the stack of change and firing off a coffee order that John could barely keep up with. When she was done, she turned her attention back to him and reassured him: “Don’t look so perplexed, they know me in here.” 

“Why the change?” John asked, because it seemed like the easiest question to begin with. “Why not a credit card? They seem to be the in thing now.” 

“It’s almost impossible to track transactions made using change,” Osgood said, pragmatically. “And what with all the new card reader developments… well, it’s highly unlikely that anyone is stealing my bank details if I’m not carrying a card.” 

“Right,” John said, nodding as sagely as he was able to given the bizarre circumstances. “So… urm, Kate says you’re a social media analyst.” 

“I am.” 

“I have to admit, I don’t really know what that is.” 

“Well,” Osgood took a deep breath, but just as she was about to start speaking, a mug of coffee that dwarfed Kate’s appeared in front of the young woman, and she grinned. “Excellent.” 

“Jesus Christ,” John said in a low voice, eyes wide and horror-struck at the prospect of so much caffeine. “That’s…” 

“Fuel,” Osgood told him matter-of-factly. “Right, social media analysis. Strictly speaking I’m a data analyst – you know what that is, right? – but I focus on social media. Followers, trends, web traffic, click traffic, engagement. All that kind of thing.” 

“What does any of that mean?” John asked, baffled by the technical terms and resolving for the hundredth time that month to actually attempt to become computer-literate. 

“Followers are pretty simple: how many people are following a site, or have liked a page, like Facebook or Twitter,” Osgood said. “Trends include actual hashtags, or words frequently used; memes; that kind of thing. A meme is a funny picture that is widely used in a viral manner,” she clarified, noting John’s confused look. “It’s my job to know what’s hot on the trend front, basically. Web traffic means how many people visit a site – like how many people go to a museum, or an art gallery. That kind of thing. Then, if using metaphors helps, click traffic is more like how many people walk into a shop and then walk out again two seconds later. We’ve all done that – you know. ‘Oh no, this isn’t for me.’ That sort of thing. Engagement is therefore how many people stay in the shop – or on the site – and buy things, or click things.” 

“Right, and how is _any_ of this helpful?” John asked, not understanding the link between Osgood and the Impossible Girl. 

“Well,” she began, taking several large gulps of her coffee before continuing. “I can track trends and keywords in ways that your station probably can’t, because I know how to actually _read_ the data.” 

“Right…”

“So, your Impossible Girl – don’t look at me like that, I consume disgusting amounts of coffee, of course I listen to late-night radio – was northern,” Osgood slid her tablets and phones onto a spare chair, flipping open her laptop and scooting around the table to show John what she was doing – not that he could keep up as her fingers worked at a million miles an hour, darting across the keyboard and over the trackpad as she scrolled through menus and programs. “Before I left the office, I downloaded your podcast from the first night she called in, so… if I just… there, that’s her voice clipped into a recording, pitch altered so no one gets too suspicious and… there.”

“What site is _that_?” John asked, peering at the header and realising how hopelessly out of touch he was. “Reddit?” 

“It’s a forum site.”

“A what?” 

“It’s… look, people ask questions and get answers. That’s what you need to know. This is posted under a pseudonym, by the way, and the IP address is masked, so this won’t get back to either of us.” 

“I understood none of that,” John told her. “But… good.” 

“There. Someone recognises the accent. Blackpudlian. So now…” Osgood clicked through several other websites until she landed on Twitter, and then began to type a long line of what looked like gibberish into the search bar. “We can isolate several keywords in tweets from the Blackpool region.” 

“How do you know they’re from the Blackpool region?” John asked, bewildered, and Osgood rolled her eyes. 

“Because a lot of people are idiots and leave the location services enabled on their phones, which means their tweets are geotagged. Even if they’re not, then the metadata recorded in photographs they choose to share is preserved, placing them at that location. And if you’re me, and very clever and just a tiny bit illegal, you can combine all of that with the key term “Impossible Girl” and get…” she pressed enter, and a long list of tweets appeared. “That.” 

John squinted at the screen in consternation. “They’re all asking who she is.”

“Which is _why,_ ” Osgood said, with a sigh. “We then click on them and follow the discussion threads. See if anyone recognises her voice. She said she was a teacher, right? To teenagers? Secondary school-age kids are the most active demographic on Twitter – forty-two percent of fifteen to seventeen year olds use it. So, at least one will recognise her voice. And undoubtedly name her. And then it’s over to Facebook or LinkedIn, and we’re sorted.” 

“Osgood, you’re a bloody genius.”

“Why, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

They’d sat in the café for hours, both of them hunched over Osgood’s laptop as they trawled through social media sites in search of the elusive Impossible Girl. They’d had coffee after coffee, until eventually they’d conceded defeat, Osgood all quiet apologies and guilty looks as John had turned away from her with sadness in his eyes as he realised he would have to pull the campaign. His last hopes had faded with Osgood’s failure to locate any information on his northern Impossible Girl, and so he’d walked home in terse silence, coming to rest in a horizontal position on his sofa some hours ago. Since then, he’d texted Raz and announced the immediate ceasing of all attempts to find his mystery caller, and texted Missy with a similar instruction. She’d kept phoning him once she received his text, of course, the phone buzzing in John’s hand until eventually he’d switched it off in lieu of throwing it at the wall, as he might have done in his younger days, and instead he closed his eyes to the world and allowed hopelessness to consume him. He had failed the Impossible Girl. Failed himself. Failed… his mind flinched away from the very thought of her name, and he clutched his temples in an attempt to silence the loud, caffeine-fuelled demons that raged in his brain and demanded his attention.

It was moments like this when the pull of his old vice was most insistent – the alluring, appealing beckon of the off-licence down the road seemed to tug at his chest like a physical connection he had long ago thought severed, and he licked his lips as he mulled over whether one drink would really kill him. He’d been good for so long – he’d _fought_ for so long – that he was sure that one glass would not be his undoing, but then he remembered the Impossible Girl and her slurred words, remembered the visceral, painful fear she had stirred in his chest, and realised he could not do that to those who cared about him. He had rebuilt his own life from the ground up, toiled and struggled to get back on his feet, and he would not allow this to be the death of his sobriety.

He rolled over and pulled a sofa cushion over his head, resigning himself to the manic tinge that caffeine had coloured his thoughts with, and cursing the Impossible Girl for every phone call she had made to him.

 

* * *

 

John rolled over in bed, fumbling around in the semi-darkness of his room for his phone. Locating the offending object, he scowled at it through sleepy eyes, registering the early hour with displeasure, and then locking the screen as he rolled his head back on the pillows, trying to gather his thoughts enough to deal with whatever notification had woken him. 

The morning after his meetings with Kate and Osgood, he had awoken late and found furious voicemails from Missy, who had forced him into the studio against his better judgement and given him the kind of talking to that would have been the death of a lesser man. Since then – since the furore surrounding the cancelling of his campaign to find the Impossible Girl – he’d got through two shows in a stupor, and Saturday morning had been his attempt at righting his still-caffeine-addled brain. Although his phone apparently had other ideas, and he realised he should probably address whatever needed his attention before attempting to go back to sleep and right his circadian rhythms. 

Groping for the device and unlocking the screen, John opened his emails and focused on the top message with some difficulty, not recognising the sender, but feeling his heart leap irrationally at the subject line.

 _From:_ adrian.davies87@easymail.co.uk

_Subject: The Impossible Girl._

John forced himself to roll his eyes sceptically and clicked on the message, not holding out any hope, but deciding to read it nonetheless, if only so that he could send a bitingly sarcastic response. 

 _Dear Mr Smith,_

_My name is Adrian Davies and I work at Coal Hill School in Shoreditch. It has come to my attention – through the medium of several terrible papers I wouldn’t like to admit to reading! – that you are looking for someone calling themselves the Impossible Girl, who is a recently bereaved secondary school teacher, possibly with a northern accent. It is my belief that the woman you are looking for is my colleague, Clara Oswald, who teaches English alongside me here at Coal Hill. Her boyfriend – a colleague of ours –  sadly passed away in July, just prior to the commencement of the summer holidays. If you wished, I could put you in contact with her._

_I hope this is of some help to you!_

_Kind regards,_

_Adrian Davies_

_PS – sorry that this email is somewhat belated; I’ve been abroad making the most of the summer break, and it wasn’t until my return that this story caught my eye. I know that you have ceased your campaign due to lack of results, but I really believe Clara is the person you are looking for. I hope to hear from you soon in re: a course of action. AD._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overjoyed at the revelation of the Impossible Girl's identity, John makes the impulsive decision to surprise her at work. Will she be happy to see him? Or will everything come crashing down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, folks! Have a bonus chapter because I'm feeling generous. The moment you've all been waiting for...

“I’m going to go and see her,” John decided, pacing the studio with a newfound vigour as he waited for his show to begin. He had too much energy to contemplate just sitting in his chair, so he’d been pacing since he’d arrived at the studio an hour earlier. “I looked up the term dates for her school, and they-” 

“Wait, _what_?!” Missy asked with incredulity, pausing in her task to affix John with a distinctly unimpressed look. “You do know that you’re sounding increasingly like a stalker with each passing day, right?”

“Hey!” John protested, hurt her casual use of the moniker that the press had so readily attached to him. “I am not a _stalker_ , the guy mentioned the school in his email so I just looked up the term dates and I figured… well, why not go and surprise her? It’d be nice; everyone likes surprises.” 

“You _hate_ surprises, John.” 

“That’s not the point. As you tell me endlessly, I’m not normal, but Clara is,” he grinned as the name left his lips, enjoying how it sounded to finally be able to put a proper name to his mystery caller. “So, she will like surprises. Particularly _this_ surprise.” 

“She’s not normal though, is she?” Missy asked, rolling her eyes at John’s innocent enthusiasm. “She’s recently bereaved, and you’re going to turn up at her place of work after running a borderline creepy campaign to find her. She’s probably scared for her damn life, John, if I’m honest, and I can’t say I blame the girl. I would be too, in her situation.” 

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that your little… intervention might not be appreciated! Particularly not at her school, particularly not when she told you she was going back to work for the first time since her boyfriend died, so this is therefore probably a massive deal for her, and you might mess it up!” Missy sighed. “How’s that going to look? To the school, and to her?” 

“Like I’m doing a nice thing for someone who has recently suffered a terrible loss.” 

“Like you’re a _creep_ ,” Missy countered, ignoring John’s reply completely. “If she gets fired and decides to sue you, I swear to god I am jumping ship to the BBC, and disowning your idiotic arse for good. I’m not weathering any more PR disasters, John, I’m sorry. Not happening.” 

“It’s not like I’m taking the press _with_ me, is it?” John asked, scowling at Missy and loathing her pessimism. “ _That_ would be bad. But no, it’ll just be me.” 

“Yeah, you and five hundred teenagers,” Missy shot back, her tone acerbic. “What could _possibly_ go wrong?”

“Missy, I’m going.” 

“You are, pardon my French, a fucking idiot. The media are going to tear you to shreds, and I will be watching with popcorn, enjoying the frenzy.” 

“Why?!” John threw his hands in the air in frustration. “I’m doing a nice thing for someone! Why does everyone find that so difficult to believe? Why does everyone think I have some ulterior motive, or that I’m a bad person? I just want to help her. I want to do a good thing to help someone in need, because god knows there isn’t enough kindness in this shitty, shitty world of ours. So, for once, can you please just support me in something I do?” 

“John,” Missy looked at him, hurt, and he realised the unfairness of his words. “I’ve supported you through _everything._ Every single damn thing.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sighing. “Sorry. I just… I want to do this. I _need_ to do this. Please. We can keep it quiet. We can be discreet. I just want to see her. Speak to her. That’s all I ask.”

“Does this Adrian chap know you’re coming, at least?” 

“Yep,” John lied. “Of course.”

“Fine, OK?” Missy capitulated, her shoulders slumping as she gave in. “Fine. Just… be sensitive. Be kind. And don’t do anything stupid.”

 

* * *

 

John looked out of his car window, through the school gates, across the playground and at the neat, red-brick buildings of Coal Hill School. Now that he was here, this suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. Maybe Missy had been right, and he should’ve asked Adrian for Clara’s number or email address to start with. Although that did carry with it the distinct worry that she might leak their communications to the press, and frankly, he didn’t need that kind of negative publicity turning up in the tabloids, not after everything he’d been through lately. No, paying the Impossible Girl a visit seemed like a safer bet, and John clicked his phone screen on, checking the time and watching the dots flash as the seconds ticked away until half past three. 

Clara would be happy to see him, or so he hoped. She’d admitted that she’d enjoyed his show since she was younger, although there was a slight concern that the media might have since coloured her perceptions of him with their excessive coverage of his campaign. Then again, he’d chosen a relatively public place to surprise her, which offered him some credibility and helped to allay the “stalker” moniker, and he prayed for the hundredth time that day that nothing would go wrong. He scanned the surrounding area for concealed paparazzi, then began to squint at people in nearby cars, trying to appraise them and discern whether any could be investigative journalists. Aware he was being paranoid and determined to stop himself fretting, he adjusted his sunglasses, ran a hand through his hair and got out of his car, leaning against the bonnet and surveying the school playground as he waited for the sound of the school bell.

 _This is a terrible idea,_ he thought to himself, as the minutes counted down, his mood oscillating between two extremes. _I should leave, I should email her, I should go... no, I’m here now… but I should go… but I could stay… but…_

“Excuse me?” a voice behind him asked, and John turned to see a gaggle of middle-aged women, all staring at him in a distinctly star-struck manner and whispering quietly. A couple were even _giggling._ “Are you John Smith? You know, from Radio TARDIS?” 

“Urm,” he began uncertainly, concerned they may have recognised him from the tabloids and mentally steeling himself to make a quick getaway if things turned sour, Impossible Girl or no Impossible Girl. She wasn’t worth getting lynched by middle-aged women. “Yeah, I am.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” the first woman squealed. “I knew it! I used to love your show when I was a teenager, you always played the best records…” 

He relaxed glad to be back on familiar – albeit old – ground, struggling remember what exactly one should say to fans. The very term made him shudder. “Well, I always tried to play what people wanted to hear,” he told her, as smoothly as he was able. “Glad to know that you ladies appreciated it.” 

She burst into giggles, nudging her friends and turning a delicate shade of pink in a distinctly schoolgirlish manner. “Could we have your autograph?” she asked, obviously embarrassed by her own request. “I mean, before the kids come out? They’d think we were such tragic cases for doing this.” 

“Sure,” John shrugged, glad for the distraction, and the women set about fumbling through their handbags for pens and pieces of paper. It had been years since anyone had asked for his autograph, but some long-dormant muscle memory took over, scrawling his name across the paper with surprising legibility. “Do any of you ladies happen to have the time?” 

“It’s nearly half-past,” a lady near the back of the group told him tartly, clutching her as-yet-unsigned piece of paper to her chest and eyeing him with suspicion. “Why are you here, anyway?” 

“Yeah,” another piped up, although her tone was more curious than wary. “Is it about your mystery caller?” 

John felt his heart sink, trying desperately to think of a lie, but instead opting to be frugal with the truth. “Nah,” he managed. “Here to meet a friend who works here.” 

“Oh,” the tense mood that had settled over the group dissipated, the women evidently excited to know that a celebrity – although he cringed at the mere thought of the word – was friendly with someone at their children’s school. He could see the desire to ask who it was, but their self-control and politeness won out. “That’s nice.” 

John smiled by way of response and went back to signing. From time to time, he became aware of new figures joining the group, drawn by the commotion around his car, and he was as polite to them as he was able, his heart thudding in his chest as he realised how close he was to meeting the Impossible Girl – _no_ , his brain corrected, _Clara_ – at last. He wondered what she’d be like, then realised he should have asked Adrian to describe her so that he didn’t make a fool of himself when she appeared. Missy probably would’ve looked her up on Facebook – who was he kidding? She definitely _had_ – and while he poured scorn on such sites, the idea suddenly seemed appealing in retrospect. As it was, he had no idea who he was looking for, and he couldn’t very well ask these women now that he’d dug himself into a hole with his lie, so he resigned himself to simply waiting for the school bell, then allowing the flood of teenagers to pass him before wandering into the school, locating Adrian, and asking to meet with Clara. As a plan, that seemed fairly watertight. 

John was in the middle of congratulating himself for his scheme and signing autographs when a loud, bossy voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Excuse me,” a woman all but shouted from the edge of the throng that had gathered around him, and John blinked, looking up in consternation. Unnoticed by him, teenagers were swarming around the gaggle of women who had congregated beside his car, younger students occasionally darting into the throng to seize at the arm of a parent and drag her away. “Hey, excuse me. Let me through.”

A petite brunette woman with ridiculously large hazel eyes elbowed her way through the group, a scowl on her face as she did so. John felt himself mirroring her sour expression and undoubtedly equally unpleasant mood, so by the time she was stood in front of him, her hands placed on her hips in a near-comedic pose, he felt positively furious, not just for the interruption but also for drawing attention to him. _Well,_ he thought to himself. **_More_** _attention._  

“Look, mate,” she began, addressing a point somewhere on his sternum, which was the only place on him that was at her eye level. “You can’t park here, OK? You’re blocking the gates with your… your _retinue_ , and-” her gaze travelled upwards as she spoke, and she froze, her expression becoming abjectly panicked. “What the hell are you doing here?” she squeaked, visibly terrified by his presence. “Y-you… you can’t be here, you… this isn’t OK!” 

“And you are?” John asked, his tone becoming disdainful in an automatic act of non-verbal self-defence. 

“You mean you… you don’t know?” she managed, relief surging over her features as she backed away from him as well as she was able given the group of women surrounding his car. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Bossy, and irritating?”

“Y-yeah,” she concurred, nodding emphatically. “That’s me. Bossy and irritating.” She turned on her heel and headed back towards the school at a rapid pace, casting frightened glances over her shoulder every few yards, and it was then that the penny dropped. 

She was _northern_. Her voice – so full of bluster and irritation, then panic – had not been instantly recognisable, but now he was certain of her identity. And… she was _scared_ of him. John cursed the tabloids to hell and back.

“Wait!” he called, beginning to race after her, but her pace only increased. “Wait, please!” 

“Leave me alone,” she spat over her shoulder, and John broke into a jog. “Go away!” 

Catching up with her, John grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her around to face him and meeting her gaze for the first time. Her eyes were wide with terror, and he could hear her rapid, panicked breathing as they stood inches apart. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, breathless and hopeful. “Clara Oswald?” 

“No,” she lied, weakly, trying to tug her arm free from his grip, but he persisted. “No, I’m not. Let me go.” 

“Bye, Miss Oswald!” a student called from across the playground, raising an arm in farewell. “See you tomorrow!” 

“Oh my god,” John breathed, looking down at his Impossible Girl and feeling his heart leap. “Clara.”

“I said, let _go_!” she repeated, bringing her free arm up to punch him hard in the stomach, and he released her arm in shock, taking a reflexive step back as she twisted away from him, bolting across the tarmac towards the school gates.

John watched what happened next in slow motion, frozen to the spot in disbelief. 

Clara ran out onto the pavement, looking back at him and then casting her gaze left and right in a perfunctory, inadequate gesture, before stepping into the road.

There was a squeal of brakes, and a scream.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After events at Coal Hill take an unexpected turn, John is forced to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, that was a nasty cliffhanger, wasn't it? ;)

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?!” barked an angry voice from the direction of the road, and John felt himself unfreeze, racing towards the confrontation. “Stepping out in front of me like that?! You stupid bitch, I could have killed you!” 

Reaching the gates, John took in the scene with horror: Clara, cowering against the side of his own car in tears, her whole body tense and shaking in what was evidently – even at this distance – shock; an expensive-looking black BMW, stopped haphazardly in the middle of the road, the driver’s door open; an angry-looking man in a sharp suit stood opposite Clara, gesticulating angrily as he shouted; and a gaggle of onlookers gaping at the scene, immobile and silent as they watched events play out.

“Hey,” John said in his most placating tone, approaching his car and smiling as calmly as he was able. He needed to defuse the tension, not make things worse, and if that meant being nice to irate BMW drivers, then that’s what he would do. “I’m really sorry about Clara; she went to fetch something from her car for me and stepped out without thinking.” 

“Who the fuck are you? Her dad?” the driver asked in an aggressive tone, squaring up to John before noticing that the latter had the height advantage and backing down fractionally. “Can’t you keep an eye on your daughter?” 

“My apologies,” John said, shooting a guilty look at Clara and feeling a twinge of dismay at the man’s assumption. “I’m really sorry, mate.” 

“Yeah, well,” the driver brushed down his suit, apparently satisfied with John’s apology. “Make sure she fucking watches it, next time. Or you won’t _have_ a daughter.”

He got back in his car, revved the engine unnecessarily loudly, and then pulled away, flipping John off as he did so. _Prat,_ John thought to himself. _Absolute prat._  

“Clara?” John said, once the BMW had disappeared around the corner and out of sight. He turned his attention back to where Clara had been stood seconds before, only to find her instead perched on the edge of the kerb, clutching her legs and sobbing with a degree of hysteria. He crouched down in front of her, trying to get her to focus on him in an attempt to steady her breathing. “Clara?” 

“Go away,” she mumbled fiercely, looking away from him as she wept. “Leave me alone.” 

“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” he told her. “Not a chance.” 

“You don’t even know me,” she looked up to scowl at him, then dropped her gaze to the cracked tarmac of the road once more. “Go away.” 

“Clara, you’re in shock, I’m not leaving you like this.”

“M’not in shock,” she told him. “M’fine.” 

John rolled his eyes, then realised that several of the gawping crowd nearby had taken out their phones and were pointing them in Clara’s direction. “Hey!” he protested, getting back to his feet and making shooing motions with his hands. He knew how it felt to have your most intimate moments of weakness splashed all over the tabloids, and he imagined that social media would be even worse, particularly given Clara’s profession. “Shove off if you’re just going to gawp! This isn’t a freak show, you know! She’s had a nasty shock, she doesn’t need you all putting this on Facebook!”

With a low level of muted grumbling, the assembled students and parents dispersed, leaving John and Clara alone outside the school gates.

“Thanks,” she muttered unwillingly, still not looking at him. “That was nice. Are you going to kidnap me now?” 

“I’m not here to kidnap you,” he told her, his tone gentle in the face of her bitter comments. “I’m just here to see how you’re doing.” 

“Yeah, great,” she said sarcastically. “Really wonderful. I just nearly got hit by a… hit by a…” 

To John’s considerable consternation, she dissolved into floods of tears once more. 

“Clara, I’m taking you inside, OK?” he told her, noting her lack of complaint as he helped her to her feet and then then pointedly let go of her, instead leading her inside the school building by simply walking ahead of her and looking around for signs. “What do you teach?” he asked, knowing that simply heading towards the English Department would only unsettle her further.

“English,” she informed him in a small voice, and he nodded, locating an impressively multilingual sign that pointed the way towards “English / Anglais / Inglés / Englisch / Angielski” and following it. 

As the duo walked in silence, he fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief, eventually producing one that he sincerely hoped was clean and handing it to Clara. 

“Thanks,” she mumbled, blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes with a corner. “Sorry.”

“About what?” he asked, as they arrived at a door marked _English Office,_ and John offered a silent prayer that the room would be empty. “Crying?” 

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, looking around at the motley collection of mismatched desks, chairs and sofas, before cursing under his breath when he noticed the office was not, in fact, unoccupied. In the corner sat a young man with limbs that seemed disproportionately gangly, and as he unfolded himself from his chair, John realised that he was actually wearing a bowtie and waistcoat. In a school. He bit back a contemptuous comment on the man’s attire as Clara sank into a seat and curled in on herself, allowing her hair to fall forward and shield her face from the gentleman’s curious gaze. 

“Ah!” the young man enthused, and John realised that this must be Adrian. “You must be John Smith! I wasn’t expecting you to pay us a visit, but I’m very glad you did. You found Clara, then? I mean, it _was_ her?” 

“I, ah…” John muttered, casting his gaze downward as he realised that Clara would undoubtedly not take this revelation well. “Yeah.” 

“I’m so glad the email helped! I got back and sat down at my computer, saw all this Impossible Girl business and I thought, ‘goodness me, that really _does_ sound like Clara!’ And lo and behold… it was!” 

“Wait,” Clara said, looking up at her colleague with fury, and John mentally winced in empathy for the young man. While Adrian had only had Clara’s best interests at heart, John was rapidly learning that the young English teacher had a mouth on her, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. “It was _you_?”

“Of course, Clara! I know how fond you are of John’s show, and I know how difficult it was for you after Danny died, so I thought… well, I’d kill two birds with one stone and reunite you both! Call it a random act of kindness.”

“You are,” Clara paused, evidently considering her words with care, “an absolute pillock. What the hell is wrong with you?! You looked at this guy and his frankly nuts campaign to track me down, and you decided that it would be a good idea to _tell him my name and where I worked_?!”

“Well,” Adrian looked sheepish, scuffing at the carpet with his toe. “When you put it like that…”

“Get out,” she snarled. “Go on!”

“Clara!”

“ _Go_!” 

Adrian sighed, grabbed an old-fashioned satchel from a nearby desk, and swept from the room with a regretful look, leaving John and Clara alone once more. 

“Clara, he was only trying to help,” John chided, feeling the need to stick up for Adrian. “He-” 

“Oh, what? Like you were _just trying to help_ too?” she looked up at her, tears beginning to track down her cheeks again. “I nearly _died_ because of you.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“God, you don’t…” she sighed in frustration. “You don’t have any idea, do you? You have no idea about my life because everything you know about me comes from those idiotic, poorly judged phone calls. You have absolutely no idea about my situation.” 

“So, enlighten me,” John took a seat opposite her and adopted a calm, contemplative look. “Fill me in.” 

“It’s not…” Clara took a deep breath, putting her head in her hands and mumbling: “I’m not good with… with roads.” 

“Roads?” John asked, his brow furrowing in puzzlement, not understanding what she meant. “How’d you mean?” 

“I mean,” she began, her tone weary, and John realised this was a conversation she’d had many times prior to today. “That my boyfriend was hit by a car. That’s how… that’s how he died.” 

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ah.” 

“I didn’t know, I’m really sorry,” John murmured, reaching for her hand in sympathy only to have her flinch away from his touch. “Sorry. I won’t touch you, it’s OK.” 

“I got the bus this morning for the first time in months and just… I thought I was OK, and then I didn’t even think. When I saw you I just panicked, you know? All the stuff in the press, all the campaign, and I just… I just ran. I didn’t even think about the road, and then he nearly… I nearly… I would’ve gone the same…” 

“Hey,” John said comfortingly, trying to reassure her. “It’s alright. It’s OK.” 

“It’s not OK!” she cried. “What the hell is wrong with you? None of this is OK. You stalking me is not OK. You becoming obsessed with me is not OK. You starting your creepy campaign is _very much not bloody OK!_ ” 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, at a loss for anything else to say. “Clara, I’m sorry.” 

“What, you think that makes it alright?” she asked, her head snapping up to scowl at him as she spoke. “You think you can just say sorry and it’ll all go away and be fine again, and I’ll fall at your feet and be grateful as hell for you doing… whatever the hell it is you came here to do? I’m not that kind of woman, OK? I’m not going to shag you, or elope with you, or do whatever you expect me to do. That isn’t going to happen.” 

“I don’t want to shag you!” John protested, wondering why everyone seemed so convinced that he had sexual intentions towards Clara. “None of this has been about me trying to get laid, the tabloids just got a bloody bee in their bonnet about the entire thing and convinced themselves that I was secretly out to murder you. I never wanted that! I never wanted it to become such a big thing in the press, I just… I just wanted to know if you were OK. I needed to know if you were OK.” 

“Why the hell did you tell me to stop phoning your show then?!” 

“Wait, what?” John froze, looking at Clara in blind incomprehension. “I never told you that.”

“ _You_ didn’t. Your producer did. I phoned in and she told me to stop calling or you were going to sue me, because you thought I was annoying and wanted nothing more to do with me.” 

“No,” John began, shaking his head in disbelief. “She told me that you phoned in and said you were fine. She said you didn’t want to call in anymore because you were moving on and you were coping with everything and didn’t need me to help you do that.” 

“Oh, my god,” Clara looked at him in horror as the truth dawned on them both. “She…” 

“She lied to us both,” he said bitterly, clenching his fists as he bit back a scream of fury. The entire time he had been searching for Clara, convinced that she wasn’t coping, convinced that she hated him… Missy had orchestrated the entire thing. Missy had set him up and played him for a fool – it was no wonder she had been so keen to dissuade him from visiting Clara, lest the truth get out and their friendship-cum-working relationship disintegrate. It was no wonder that Clara had been so frightened by the campaign, and by John’s arrival at Coal Hill. “Jesus. I had no idea, I’m so sorry.”

“Your producer sounds… lovely,” she wrinkled her nose. “Really.”

“She’s a bit…” he sighed, feeling obliged to defend his oldest friend, despite Clara’s revelation. “Protective. She was worried that you phoning in was losing me listeners, because people thought I was being biased towards you.” 

“You were,” Clara smiled for the first time, and John felt himself return the gesture tenfold. She looked entirely different when she smiled – her eyes lit up, and she developed dimples that were otherwise concealed. “But in a good way. I felt… I don’t know, special. And grateful you were bothering with me. Pathetically grateful, really.” 

“Not pathetic at all,” John assured her, determined not to allow her to become self-deprecating. “Honestly, not a bit.”

“Why _did_ you bother with me?” Clara asked, frowning a little. “I mean, you were bothered enough to start this whole campaign, and if it wasn’t some gigantic evil conspiracy to get back at me for like… god knows, I don’t understand men; then what the hell was the point of it all? You’ve never been that arsed about a caller before. You’ve never seemed so…”

“So _what_?” 

“Invested in them.” 

“What, so you don’t think I’m a pervert or a stalker now?”

“Not now I know about your psycho producer, no.”

“Well, that’s a start,” he rolled his eyes, then bluffed: “I dunno.” 

“You’re a terrible liar. You _do_ know.” 

“Well, you take a wild guess, Miss Super-fan Oswald.” 

“I am not a super-fan,” she scoffed, instantly dismissive of the pejorative term. “How can I guess that?! I’m not a mind-reader!” 

“You guessed enough to trick the system.” 

“What system?” her brow furrowed, and then her eyes lit up as she understood. “You mean the no-death thing?” 

“That’s the one, yeah,” John acquiesced. “You knew how to wriggle through the net.” 

“I didn’t really _know_ ,” she admitted, making a face that John was sure was supposed to look modest. “It was more that I’d never heard you talk about it. I just assumed that… oh.” 

“Oh?” 

“You lost someone, didn’t you?” Clara asked, her expression turning pitying in a manner that somehow John found himself not minding.

“Yes,” he mumbled, unused to discussing such matters, and surprised by the raw emotion that choked at his voice as he confessed to Clara. “I did.”

“Who was it?” Clara wondered, looking at him with wide eyes, and he knew he would have to tell her the truth. “You’ve never… oh my god, this explains so _much_ … the… the…” 

“You can say ‘drink problem,’ you know. I don’t mind.” 

“Who was it?” she breathed, reaching out to take his hand in hers, and he was grateful for the contact. “Tell me about them.” 

John took a deep breath, uncertain about why he was about to tell this woman – a complete stranger, and a _fan_ , no less – his deepest secrets. _Context_ , he told himself. _Context, and maybe it’s time I talked about her. Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding things._

“Her name,” he said, uncertain of how to begin his explanation. “Was River, and I loved her more than anything in this world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tragic backstory incoming in 3... 2... 1...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't sure why he's telling Clara any of this, but he finds that once he starts talking about his past, he can't bring himself to stop. Thus the tale of a radio DJ and an archaeologist comes to be told in the English Office at Coal Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to indulge you all with twice-weekly updates! Enjoy!

Clara shifted in her seat, drawing her hands into her lap and getting comfortable as she looked to John expectantly, awaiting his explanation. She wasn’t quite smiling, but her expression was warm and encouraging, and he allowed that to give him confidence in the face of what he was about to tell her. It had been a long time since he’d actively sought to engage with memories of River, and an even longer time since he’d discussed her in anything more substantial than throwaway comments to Missy, and he found himself dreading going back down the rabbit hole of their past. He looked from left to right, feeling a mounting sense of panic, but then his eyes were drawn back to Clara and he felt himself relax fractionally as he readied himself to begin. 

“When were you born?” John asked her suddenly, and she frowned, wrong-footed by the invasive question. “Just … humour me here.” 

“1986,” she pursed her lips, giving him the kind of look that he recognised as being distinctly no-nonsense. “Please don’t give me some bullshit talk about how I won’t be able to fully understand the depth of your love for her due to my lack of time on this earth, or I will thump you and then leave this office. Although then I will probably come back, because I’m nosy, and I want to hear what you’re about to say.” 

“I’m not going to!” he protested, feigning offence. “Just wanted to know whether you were around when mine and River’s story began.” 

“What, because it was so momentous that it would’ve moved Tiny Me to tears?” she asked in a sarcastic tone, then caught the expression on his face and sighed. “I’m sorry, that was catty of me.” 

“No, no,” he said at once, understanding her impatience and confusion. “You make a good point, but I guess to me it was momentous. _We_ always felt it was, at least. Ever since I first saw her, I knew she was The One. Isn’t that such a disgusting cliché? I’m a sap, I know.”

“Nah, not really.” 

“Well,” John chuckled, “I feel like some prat in a romantic film. If I start singing a ballad, do feel free to thump me. But anyway… scene-setting. It was back in the mid-eighties, and I was trying to start up my own radio station down here. Funnily enough, most of the London media corporations – mentioning _no_ names – weren’t that interested in giving air time to a lad from the rough end of Glasgow, let alone loaning him any equipment to get an actual station going, so I was doing shifts at the local pub and a couple of cafés, trying to save up to buy gear. On top of that, I was running over to this nothing little station over in Central to work a couple of hours a week as a fill-in newsreader so their main bloke could go and get pissed.” 

“Lovely.” 

“It _was_ the eighties.” 

“Fair point.”

“So, that’s how I met her – she was doing a whole bunch of digs around Southwark, and-” 

“Digs?” 

“She was an archaeologist, which you’d have known, if you let me finish the sentence.” 

“Sorry,” Clara mumbled, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of red. “Carry on.”

“She was doing all these digs around Southwark, trying to find out about Roman London, and she was on the radio to drum up interest in all these sherds she’d found.” 

“What’s a sherd when it’s at home?” 

“Like a shard, but not. She did explain it to me once, but… well, I forget. Anyway, she was trying to attract some local interest, and the guy interviewing her was being a real dick. He was the _worst_ sort of presenter – facetious, asking her the most sarcastic questions you could think of, and I was sat there watching her get more and more wound-up. Except the bloke doing the interviewing was just oblivious to it – you know the sort of guy, right? Thinks he’s god’s gift to women – and so, when she went nuclear, he nearly had a heart attack on the spot. I laughed so hard, I fell off my chair, and I thought I played it cool, but afterwards she came over and asked if I thought men picking on women was funny.”

“I like her already.”

“I told her that, no, I thought her scaring the living daylights out of our dickhead evening show presenter was the best thing I’d seen in about a decade, and asked her to go to the pub with me.”

“Well, that was smooth as hell. Well done.” 

“Thanks,” John grinned, enjoying recounting the story now that he was getting into it. “I got fired for walking out on my slot, but it kind of didn’t matter. She was working at the university, getting her PhD, so I got involved with the uni radio station, borrowed some equipment, and the rest… well.” 

“Nice. Is that the end of the story, or…?” 

“God, no,” John shook his head, trying to work out how to simplify matters. “So, as time went on, I realised that this woman – this crazy, beautiful, too-good-for-me woman, actually really liked me. She wasn’t just humouring me; she was genuinely interested in radio, and music, and having a good time. And, alright, I wasn’t interested in archaeology and the Romans, but when she talked about it… God, she made it sound like the most incredible thing you’ve ever heard. She made sherds sexy. Radio TARDIS was kicking off about then – it was _all_ kicking off about then, if I’m honest, not that it did either of us any good financially – and things were a bit of a squeeze, but we were happy as Larry just mooning about with each other in pubs and clubs and parks and all the bloody awful cliché places you go on dates when you’re poor. Anyway, we were sat in her flat one night – this tiny little flat, with two of us crammed in, and boxes of records and books stacked up to the ceiling – and I realised that I was properly, madly in love with her, and asked her to marry me. Bit of a joke, really – neither of us had any money for a big, flashy Charles-and-Di affair, but figured I’d ask anyway. And she said yes.” 

“Hang on,” Clara held up a hand, and he fell silent in anticipation of her inevitable observation. “You have literally never said anything about being married. _Ever_. I thought this was going to be some story about how you loved and lost her to some other bloke, or she died tragically young of… I don’t know, a drug overdose or something. I was not expecting _marriage_.” 

“We… kept the whole thing pretty quiet,” John confessed, feeling a tinge of regret. “By the time it got around to the actual wedding, she’d just finished her PhD and had been offered a job, and I was on the up, and we sat down and decided that we didn’t want her to just be ‘John Smith’s wife – you know, that bloke on the radio.’ She didn’t want that – she wanted anything she got to be on her own merit. So, we had a little tiny ceremony, really, just friends and a couple of colleagues down the registry office, then the pub. And that was that. Married.” 

“Aww,” Clara said fondly, beaming at him. “That sounds lovely.” 

“It was. Course, then things started to improve. Radio TARDIS really took off, and we moved out of her flat into this proper nice Victorian place – I still live there, actually, even if it’s seen better days. She got promoted, and promoted again, and then helped set up the Museum of London Archaeology. She was _nuts_ about that place, and nuts about her job. Used to fly off to all these exotic conferences around the world and go to digs in Italy and all sorts, while I was stuck in a studio in London. She used to send me back postcards and I’d stick them all on the fridge and pretend I was there with her.”

“Did you…” Clara interjected – and John steeled himself as he realised what she was going to ask – “You know… have any kids?” 

“No,” he sighed, feeling the bitter sting of sorrow at her words. “What with my job and her job, somehow we never quite got round to it. By the time we sat down and thought about it… it was too late, really, and we realised that our lifestyle was all wrong anyway.”

“I’m really sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he told her, offering her a tight smile. “She liked kids, but she liked giving them back at the end of the day. It wouldn’t have worked out.” 

“And you?” 

“I’d have loved kids, but it doesn’t really do to dwell on the ‘what ifs,’ does it?” 

“No,” Clara said gently, visibly taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. “No, it doesn’t. What … what happened to her? I mean, in the end?” 

“She, ah,” John turned away, fighting back tears by squeezing his eyes shut, and he was startled when Clara reached over and took his hand, squeezing it lightly. He opened his eyes and she gave him a reassuring smile, and he drew on that as he continued. “She was visiting an excavation site in Southwark a few years back. The project was being overseen by the Felman Lux Corporation – they financed a couple of projects that River was working on. Their rep was a bit of a creep, but she was enjoying the work, and anyway… she was out on the dig…” he paused, attempting to keep his voice from wavering. “She… she had a spade, and she was digging, and there was… they told me there was a bang…” 

“Shit. Unexploded bomb?”

“No, no,” John shook his head, then explained: “High-voltage cable.” 

“Jesus.” 

“Eleven thousand volts.” 

“ _Jesus_.” 

“Yeah,” he looked down. “The preliminary survey cocked up. Coupled with the fact that the Corporation didn’t have an up-to-date map of the underground distribution network, and, well… it was only a matter of time before someone died, really.” 

“I’m so sorry, John,” Clara squeezed his hand again, evidently at a loss for words. “Can I call you John? Sorry. I really hope the bastards got the book thrown at them for negligence like that. Bloody hell.” 

“John is fine, but ah,” he cleared his throat. “No, they didn’t, actually.” 

“What?!” Clara exclaimed in horror, then frowned. “Hang on… I think… I remember hearing something about this. It was on the news. Wasn’t there a rumour that the guy bribed the jury?” 

“Yep,” John popped his lips on the _p_ , scowling as he spoke. “Bastard walked free. After my wife died in agony. Although… well, he got what he deserved in the end.” 

“Please god, tell me you did not hire a hit man.” 

“I did not hire a hit man,” John rolled his eyes at the accusation. “I was a bit busy. Nah, he got investigated by HMRC after an anonymous tip-off from an insider. Turned out he’d been committing revenue fraud since the nineties. Got ten years in Pentonville.” 

“Ah,” Clara said quietly, mulling over the information. “Yeah, that seems… reasonable.” 

Silence settled over the pair of them for the next few minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts, until Clara looked up and met his gaze. 

“When you say ‘busy,’” she began uncertainly, and John felt his heart sink as he realised what she was getting at. “You mean the drinking, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” he concurred, breaking eye contact and focusing on a brightly coloured poster pinned to the wall of the office. Anything to avoid looking at her and having to see the pitying look in her eyes. Anything to stop his burgeoning sense of shame from overwhelming him. “I took to it after she died. Just kept working through all the amassed bottles of crap that people had given us, y’know – from Christmas and birthdays and shite. I’d been working too much to partake in any of it before, and River wasn’t a fan, but with her gone… it suddenly seemed like a good idea. Finished the wine, started some expensive bottle of whiskey that some wanker at her job had given her, and when that was gone, I emptied my wallet at the off-licence and just climbed into a bottle of scotch for the next few months. I don’t remember a lick of the hearing, except the sentencing.” 

“I remember listening to your show…” 

John groaned, mortified at the memory. “Oh, Christ. Yeah. They’d let a lot slide, but turning up drunk like that… well, it was no wonder I got suspended – I needed to get my act together. But at the time… well, at the time, it was the end of the world as far as I was concerned. Missy – my producer, y’know – is an old friend from university, and she scraped me off the floor and put me back together. Convinced the station to give me a slot again once I’d sobered up, even if it was a shite one. I owe her for that.” 

“So, I’m assuming you won’t be firing her,” Clara’s voice was quiet, and when he looked up he saw the resignation in her eyes. “You know, for lying to us both.”

“What she did…” 

“I know, John,” Clara met his gaze and offered him a weary smile that conveyed her understanding of the matter, if not her acceptance. “I know, you owe her. Not many people would’ve helped you like that, and it’s not the kind of thing that people let you forget.” 

“Clara…”

“John, honestly. I understand. I do. Just… maybe take what she says with a pinch of salt next time.” She grinned at him, the change in mood throwing him before he grinned back, heartened by her words. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, making a face. “I think that might be a good plan, not to-”

“You’re doing better now, right?” Clara asked suddenly, furrowing her brow as she looked him over. “About the grief thing and the alcohol thing and… everything? I know it really stays with you and messes with your head for a long time. It did when my mum died.”

“I didn’t know… I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I was sixteen,” Clara shrugged, attempting to look indifferent, but falling short. “It was a long time ago.” 

“You’re not fooling me.” 

“I’m not trying to, I just don’t want to talk about it. Answer my question.” 

“Fine. Of course, I’m OK,” John told her, wanting to steer the conversation back to her revelation, but understanding that she was unwilling to discuss the issue. “That was… god, coming up to seven years ago. Things are much better. But what about you? You’re really the reason I came, you know – I didn’t drop by to talk about myself. How are you coping without…” 

“Danny,” Clara told him quietly. “His name was Danny. I’m doing OK, I suppose. People just look at me weirdly, especially here – he worked here, I don’t know if Adrian told you that, so the kids all knew him, too. Today… god, they all looked at me with so much concern, with these big pathetic eyes, and they kept treating me like I was made of bloody glass, and I swear to god, it made me want to scream.” 

“That part bothered me, too,” John confessed, understanding what she meant. The pity was something he’d learned to live with and ignore, even if it had irked him at first. It had faded with time, but he still caught Missy doing it from time to time and felt it grate on his nerves. “I’d offer some helpful advice, but I really feel like ‘be the antithesis of me’ is enough to be going on with.”

“I can do that,” Clara mumbled, looking down, and John realised she was crying again. “I just… I miss him, though.” 

“I know.”

“And then there’s the guilt. I’ve got this godawful sense of guilt hanging over me all the time, and it’s keeping me up at night, it’s keeping me from doing anything, and it’s just… I don’t know, it’s stifling me, it’s like I can’t breathe, and-” 

“It’s not your fault though, Clara. You weren’t driving the car that hit him, you can’t blame yourself for his death.” 

“I cheated on him,” she blurted, her voice little more than a whisper as she looked up and met his gaze, her eyes wet with tears and wide with guilt. “He wanted to marry me, but I cheated on him. And god knows, it’s killing me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my dad, an electrician, for being entirely unfazed when I texted him asking how easy it was to stick a spade through a mains cable, and for then proceeding to advise me on the horrors of electrocution. Stay safe kids.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara confesses her secret to John, but will it make her feel better? Or worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments!

The look that John was giving her was everything that Clara had feared in the wake of Danny’s death. She’d kept her secret for months now, allowing it to consume her from the inside out as she bit her tongue to stop the words from leaving her mouth. Even Amy didn’t know, so scared had Clara been of tainting her flatmate’s perception of her, and now as she looked at the shock and disgust in John’s eyes, she knew she had been right to keep her mouth shut. She took a shuddering breath, allowing her old defence mechanisms to kick in and allay the tension that had settled over them like a cloying fog, choking her words and impacting her decision-making.

“I’m a slut,” she said quickly, before he had the chance to say the words himself. If she condemned herself, it somehow seemed more tolerable than him doing so. “I know that, OK? I’m an awful, vacuous, horrible slut, who deserved to lose Danny because I acted like a disgusting whore. That’s the very least I deserved. I get that, you don’t need to say it.” 

“I…” John took a breath, and she looked down, noticing his hands trembling in his lap. Shock, perhaps. Or fury, at the fact she had betrayed someone so close to her. She swallowed uncomfortably and tensed her muscles, readying herself to fight or flee in the wake of his next words. “I don’t understand.” 

“I fucked someone else, what is there to not understand?” Clara laughed a sharp, nervous laugh, hating herself for defaulting to humour in order to manage the situation. “The sex, or Danny dying?”

“I don’t…” he sighed, running a hand over his face, wearily. “I don’t understand why you’d do that. Why you’d do that to someone you loved.” 

“Nor do I, yet here I am, bereaved, single, and talking to a washed-up radio DJ about things which are frankly none of his business.” 

“ _You_ confessed to _me_!” he argued, scowling at her. “I didn’t force it out of you, so don’t make it sound like I’m poking my nose in where it isn’t welcome!” 

“No, you just turned up at my school and scared the living shit out of me, then brought me in here and outstayed your welcome.” 

“Clara.” 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, swiping her hand over her eyes and feeling a rush of guilt for her prickly attitude. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to… it’s a bad habit, pushing people away like that, and I know that’s not an excuse, I’m just… fuck, I feel so bad about it, and I haven’t told anyone before because god knows, he was the perfect man, and I ruined everything, and now he’s dead.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked, meeting her gaze with surprising levelness. “With me? I’m not involved in the situation, and sometimes that… that can help. Having a third person’s perspective.”

“I… urm…” she mulled over his offer, torn between the idea of telling him and the thought of how he might judge her if she did so. She closed her eyes, rationalising that she had nothing left to lose, and she clenched her fists in her lap as she mentally prepared herself. “Yeah. OK.” 

“Start from the beginning.” 

“I don’t… urm, OK. Well, Danny wanted to marry me,” she laughed nervously. “Kept leaving all these jewellery catalogues at my place, and dragging me over to jewellers’ shop windows when we went out together. Asking me what kind of rings I liked, what metals, what stones, that sort of thing. He probably thought he was being subtle, you know what men are like about these things. And, alright, it was a lovely idea, and he was so sweet about it all… but, god, the thought terrified me, you know? The thought of moving out of my flat and moving in with him and getting married and having two-point-four children and a Labrador.” She caught John’s expression of disbelief, and grimaced. “He was that kind of man. He’d have probably wanted a cat as well, just to make it really picture-perfect. Mr and Mrs Pink, and their lovely little middle-class brood, and their lovely detached house, and their cat and their dog.” 

“Sorry, hang on… _Pink_?” 

“Yeah,” Clara chuckled at his confusion, remembering how she had responded the first time she’d heard the ridiculous surname. “Danny Pink. He hated it. Absolutely loathed his name.” 

“Can see why.” 

“Says John Smith!”

“At least I’m not named after a colour.” 

“Well, look, name and all aside, you can see why I had reservations. And I knew he’d be funny about me keeping my name, even though I liked it… just… god, the thought of being a ‘Mrs.’ The thought of being a mum. The thought of trying to find property in London that was near the school and in a safe enough area to raise kids and not too expensive, and then working until we died just to pay off the mortgage. Not to mention planning a whole bloody wedding. God, the whole thing just made me feel sick. But he was so invested in the idea. Talked about it non-bloody-stop. All ‘wedding this’ and ‘house that.’ There’s only so much smiling and nodding I can do, you know? Only so much _anyone_ can do in that situation.” 

“I’m assuming it all boiled over. What happened?” 

Clara sighed, closing her eyes for a moment to steel herself before she went on. “He turned up in my classroom after school one day with this bloody great spreadsheet and presentation all printed out on reams and reams of paper, working out my salary and his salary and how much we could put away for a wedding and how much we could put aside for a house, and how my career and his career would pan out. All these facts and figures and – oh, right – he was a maths teacher. He was nuts about that kind of thing,” she clarified, realising how bizarre Danny’s behaviour sounded without that important contextualisation. Hell, even _with_ that key information. “Well, he had all these graphs, and all these ideas about how I could move in with him for a bit, and how if we saved we could get married in two years and have a house in three, and be thinking about kids in four. He hadn’t even popped the question yet! So I told him that I wasn’t ready to think about it, not about any of it. And he got all downtrodden and wide-eyed and mopey and started going on and on about how much he loved me, and just when I was really starting to get pissed off, he sprung it on me that he’d got a ring for me, and he was planning the perfect proposal, and I just… I saw red. I really did.” 

“Why?” John asked, but his tone was curious, rather than accusatory. 

“He never asked if I wanted any of that! I’d tried to make it clear I didn’t and he just carried on with his bloody vision of the perfect middle-class life, steamrolling over me as usual, and it all got too much and I lost it at him. Told him I didn’t want to get married. Told him I didn’t want to settle down. Walked out of school, got on the first bus I saw, and ended up in a bar in Central knocking back tequila shots on my own, like the tragic excuse for a woman I am. That’s when I met Will.” 

“Will being…” 

“Will being The Guy, yeah.” 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah, ah. He was really sweet, actually. Worked in publishing, I think he said. He bought me a drink and we flirted a bit, and it was just… so nice to actually flirt with someone. Danny was terrible at it – couldn’t have flirted to save his life. But Will was funny, and clever, and the next thing I knew we were kissing, and he was just... I don’t know. Not like Danny. Not anything like Danny, and I knew it was a bad idea, but I…” she shrugged, not knowing how to explain herself. “I was angry. I was drunk. We went back to his, and things happened.” 

“’Things’ being… you know, the full Monty?”

Clara sighed, and closed her eyes, biting back a wave of self-loathing. “Yes, the full Monty. Woke up the next morning to a godawful hangover, twenty-five missed calls and ten voicemails, all from Danny telling me he loved me, he was sorry, he wouldn’t rush me. All the things I’d needed to hear the night before, rather than him being mad-keen on getting married.” 

“What did you do?” 

“Threw up in Will’s bathroom, called in sick, went home, took a hungover shower and called the GP,” she looked down, her cheeks flushing. “Y’know. To get… _checked_.”

John groaned, and Clara felt herself turn a darker shade of red. “You didn’t…”

“What are you, my dad?” Clara snapped. “I’m telling you this story in confidence, so stop being a judgemental prick.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. Anyway. Four hours later, a truly enormous bunch of roses turned up at my door,” Clara made a face as she recalled the overblown gesture. “And then _he_ turned up that evening. Cried profusely. Told me he loved me; told me he was sorry. Everything he’d said on the phone, but all delivered alongside a Grade A case of puppy-dog eyes. I wanted to tell him about Will, I really did, but I figured he’d already been through enough, what with me being a bitch and everything, so I said I was sorry as well. I grovelled. And I thought we could get past it.” 

“Right.” 

“Don’t use that tone with me,” she scowled at John, irritated by the disapproval she sensed in his voice. “The guilt was bloody awful, and I felt like a complete bitch, so a week later I called him and told him to come over. I was a complete state, so he just walked out the door without hanging up, and he was nattering away to me trying to calm me down, and…” 

“Oh, my god,” John breathed, looking at her with horror as comprehension dawned. “No…” 

“He was nearly at mine, that was the awful thing. It all went silent, and then some woman picked up his phone and told me…” Clara looked away, fighting back tears as she remembered the woman’s shocked tone, imparting the information to her shakily. “Told me what had happened. He died before I got there.” 

“Jesus, Clara,” John told her, and somehow his pity only made her feel worse. “I’m sorry.” 

“I cheated on him,” Clara shrugged, subconsciously reverting back to self-deprecation to deal with her feelings of guilt. “I deserved it.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“I did. I deserved everything I got and more.” 

“Look, what you did was wrong, yes, but you were going to tell him!” John wrung his hands in his lap, looking at her with an oddly desperate look that Clara didn’t fully understand. “You didn’t deserve him dying. Especially not on the phone to you.” 

“Shit happens-” 

“Clara-”

“Shit happens to dirty little cheaters.” 

“You can’t beat yourself up about this, Clara-” 

“I can do what I damn well like,” she said hotly, self-loathing consuming her now that her story had come to a close and the memories had welled up, raw and painful and threatening to reduce her to tears. “I fucked up, and I’m paying the price for what I did. I understand that now. I had a man who was too good for me, and I didn’t appreciate that, and the universe took him away from me. It’s my punishment.” 

“You can’t let yourself think like this.”

“Can’t I?” she snapped, anger twisting her words and her expression in order to conceal her vulnerability. “I spent the whole damn summer hating myself. Praying that something bad would happen to me, so that I could be with him and make amends. Praying that something would happen, and I could confess to him, and things would be OK-” 

“But then you’d be dead and unhappy, Clara, because he’d be angry at you, and hurt-” 

“Maybe it would be better to be dead, honest, and unhappy.” 

“Clara…” John looked at her with concern, and she felt her anger grow in response to his pity. “Clara, you can’t let yourself think like that. That’s how… well, that’s how I got to where I was. That’s how everything went wrong for me.” 

“I’m not going to do what you did,” she scoffed dismissively. “That won’t happen.” 

“I’m worried about you.” 

“You don’t even _know_ me!” Clara argued, throwing her hands in the air as she spoke. “You have no idea about my life!”

“And yet you’re telling me all of this! Why? I think it’s because you want me to help you.” 

“No, _you_ want you to help me. I don’t need your help. I don’t need you to swoop in and save me like I’m a damsel in distress, because I’m not. I’ve got this, John.” 

“And yet you phoned the show, Clara. You phoned the show to ask for my help, and now you’re scaring me. You’re borderline suicidal-” 

“No, I’m not. I just want to make amends with my dead boyfriend.”

“What, because you can just totally pop down to the afterlife and do that? I don’t think so. Clara, you need to talk to someone about this.”

“Fuck off, you’re not a counsellor.” 

“No, but I’ve had enough experience with them to know the basics. You’re not coping with hiding this secret from the world. Or with Danny’s death.” 

“No, I’m not,” she confessed quietly, the fight leaving her, and she hung her head in defeat. “But you can’t help with that.” 

“I can try?” 

“I don’t want you to try. I didn’t want you to come and find me. I didn’t want any of… _this_.” 

“But you’re still talking to me, Clara. So, you want help. You want to talk to someone about this and get help.” 

“Can you just leave?” she asked in desperation, hating him for being right, hating herself for telling him everything, hating how much she was hurting as memories swum to the forefront of her mind and demanded her attention. The thought of confessing to anyone else – of bringing that pain to the surface again – was too much to bear, and she curled into herself, folding her arms across her chest. “Please? I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t want you here anymore. Just… get out.” 

“I’m not leaving you like this.” 

“Why are you so bothered?!” she shouted, her composure slipping in the wake of his refusal to acquiesce to her wishes, before she realised John was looking around worriedly and lowered her voice a fraction as she remembered where they were. “You don’t have any right to me, or my life! You don’t know me beyond the very limited things I said, and, dammit, telling you was nothing but a mistake! This is some creepy saviour complex you’ve got going on, and I didn’t ask for you to get like this about me, or for you to come and be a hero, so just get out and leave me the hell alone!” 

“Clara…” 

 _“Go_.” 

“But-” 

“ _I said go!_ ” 

She burst into tears as he got up and left the office, worry etched on his face as he looked over his shoulder at her one last time, and she curled up in her seat, sobbing with abandon as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Damn him for turning up here. Damn him for telling her his story, and encouraging her to tell him hers in return. Damn him for caring about her. She’d let herself show weakness in front of him, and that was unacceptable in her eyes. She’d let her calm, collected façade slip, revealing him the terrified woman underneath, and now she felt nothing short of humiliated. It was her own fault, she supposed – her own fault for cheating, her own fault for causing Danny’s death – and she clenched her fists, pressing them against her temples and beginning to rock backwards and forwards as self-hatred and guilt consumed her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara arrives home needing peace and quiet. What she actually gets is a loud, auburn, Scottish model, who demands to know why her flatmate is in such a terrible mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love these two together.

By the time Clara got home, her self-hatred had condensed down into a general sentiment of ill-will towards the world and people around her, a sentiment only intensified by the fact that she had discovered her Oyster card was broken and subsequently had to walk home. She’d scuffed her feet the entire walk, playing kick the stone and keeping her fists clenched in her pockets, and, by the time she’d ascended the stairs to her flat, she was a sweaty, irate mess. 

“Clara!” Amy enthused with a sickening level of optimism, the front door swinging open before Clara could reach into her bag for her keys. Amy was posed artistically in the hallway, one hand on her chin as she adopted a contemplative expression. “I’m thinking – Jesus Christ, you’ve got a face like a slapped arse. What’s going on?” 

“Thanks,” Clara shot back, shrugging off her bag and dumping it on the hall table unceremoniously, kicking off her shoes and shrugging off her coat before attempting to make her way to her bedroom, only to find her way blocked by Amy. _Damn her for being so tall. Damn her for having so much limb to block doors with._ “Amy, can you not?” 

“Why are you in a grumpy mood? Was work really that awful? Do I need to come and beat up any teenaged children?” 

“I’m not in a grumpy mood.”

“You look like you’ve been sucking a lemon. Several lemons. That is not the face of a happy woman, Clara Oswald.” 

“Piss off.” 

“See?” Amy crowed in triumph, and Clara scowled at her. “Grumpy.” 

“I want to go to my room and stew in my own sadness,” she complained, her tone whiny. “Can I please just do that?”

“Nope,” Amy seized her flatmate’s arm and pulled her into the lounge, pushing her down onto the sofa and then standing in the centre of the room, arms folded and an authoritarian look on her face. “Right.” She adopted a Russian accent and narrowed her eyes menacingly. “You vill talk.” 

“Why are you Russian?” 

“Ees for dramatic effect.” 

“Ees making me vant to hit you,” Clara muttered, attempting to get up, but finding herself pushed back onto the sofa cushions before she could get anywhere near vertical. “Amy, I’m serious, can we really not do this?” 

“You’re not going and stewing in a pit of despair,” Amy told her firmly, reverting back to her normal voice and glaring at her friend. “Not least because the last time you did that, you didn’t shower for days, your bedding got kind of gross, and, all in all, you smelt. Sorry to be blunt. But you did.”

“You know, you’re really not helping.” 

“I’m Scottish,” Amy reminded her. 

“That does _not_ give you a free pass to be rude.” 

“It _so_ does,” her flatmate grinned. “Besides, you’re English. I’m allowed to be rude to you; we based the entire history of our nation on that. Besides, you _did_ smell. That’s not being rude, it’s an objective fact.” 

“I have mentioned I hate you, right?” 

“Several hundred times. Now, my tiny English-teacher pal, what’s going on? Don’t even think about lying, because I am not averse to tickling you until you confess.” 

“I _really_ hate you.”

Amy held up her hands and wiggled her fingers in a vaguely menacing manner, reminding Clara of the last time that such a threat was carried out. “Talk.” 

“Fine!” Clara capitulated, rolling her eyes. “So, John Smith turned up at school.” 

“Hilarious.” 

“Not joking.” 

“Fuck me.”

“Yeah.” 

“Right, I’m making tea. There’s no way this story isn’t going to be long, so tea is a necessity,” Amy got to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen, poking her head back into the lounge from time to time to check Clara hadn’t moved. Clara sighed and tucked her legs underneath her on the sofa, resigning herself to having to explain the day’s bizarre events to her friend. Amy returned five minutes later with a tray held aloft, upon which sat two mugs of tea, a plate piled high with biscuits, and a shot glass of vodka, which Clara eyed with concern. “That’s in case you need Dutch courage,” Amy said. 

“Right.” 

“Do you?” 

“No.” 

“Good, I’ll have it instead. Living vicariously, and all,” Amy necked the shot, shuddered, and then picked up her tea, taking a long sip and visibly relaxing. “Right. Go.” 

“OK. Urm, well. It was chucking out time, and there was this car parked on the zigzag lines, so I went to tell the owner to move it… and it was him. With a sort of… retinue of hysterical middle-aged fans. And obviously I was like, oh my god, he’s probably a serial killer or something, so I tried to go back inside, but he followed and I ran into the road and nearly got hit by a car, like the genius I am.” 

“Clara!” 

“Yeah, alright. Sorry, mum,” she poked her tongue out at Amy, reaching for her tea and sipping it pensively. “I got all panicky and he was actually kind of nice about it, you know? Which was really unexpected. And he took me inside, and would you believe that bloody _Adrian_ dobbed me in to him? Anyway… it turned out he really did just want to hear back from me, and the whole campaign was sincere, and his frankly _insane_ producer had lied to us both, so he wasn’t actually like… I don’t know, trying to get revenge on me, which is a plus, I suppose. I asked him why he was so bothered about me and, well, it turns out he lost someone, too.” 

“Parents, I’m guessing?” 

“Nope. Look, if I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Not even Rory.” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re going to tell him anyway, aren’t you?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Well, his wife died,” Clara explained, taking another sip of tea. “And-” 

“Wait, what?” Amy asked, her expression confused. “What wife?” 

“He had a wife. They met when they were really young, but she was an academic so they didn’t want her work to get messed up by people just being nice to her ’cos her husband was famous. She died. On a dig. It sounded… really horrible, actually.” 

“In what way?” 

“She got electrocuted.” 

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. You remember the Felman Lux trial?” 

Amy nodded. 

“Well, that was about her death. Whatshisname… you know… Strackman Lux, that’s the guy. Well, he got away with it despite the fact he’d been negligent, and John went off the rails after that. Alcohol and meltdowns, all sorts. That’s why his show got pulled. That’s why he only does late-night radio now.” 

“Bloody hell, the poor guy,” Amy said sympathetically, taking another gulp of tea. “So, why are you grumpy?” 

“I’m getting to that part,” Clara sighed, knowing she was going to have to come clean to Amy, but still dreading the prospect of confessing. “He was just worried about me going the same way, you know? Taking to booze, that kind of thing. And he asked how I was doing and I didn’t mean to tell him, just… things came out… and…” 

“Tell me you didn’t tell him you were in love with him or anything equally clichéd.” 

“No!” Clara protested, rolling her eyes at the insinuation, and then taking a fortifying swig of her drink. “I ah… I told him that I cheated on Danny.” 

“Oh, are you finally admitting that now?”

Clara looked at her flatmate with stupefaction. 

“What?” Amy asked with surprising humility. “You came home hungover as fuck, took a shower, more or less ignored the roses Danny sent you, but then apologised to the poor bastard a few hours later. You should’ve been making an effort after that, but you pretty much avoided him for the next week. It was kind of obvious.” 

“Roses?” Clara asked weakly, in lieu of having anything better to say. 

“Please. If you’d had a fight, you would’ve just binned them. It’s you; you’re superbly stubborn like that. You kept them – which suggested you _had_ had a fight, but you felt guilty about it, for reasons you chose not to disclose to me. So, the logical conclusion was that you, ah… _wandered_.”

“Right.” 

“I also saw your text from the clinic,” Amy confessed with a grin. “You bad, bad girl.” 

Clara groaned and took a sip of her tea, using the mug to hide her face before mumbling: “So, I suppose you think I’m a shitty person.” 

“I mean… it’s not great, Clara, no,” Amy reasoned, downing the remains of her drink and setting her mug down on the coffee table, before turning fully to Clara and grinning wickedly. “But worse things have happened. Was he cute?” 

“What?!” 

“Was he?” Amy tipped her a wink. “Come on, I’ve known you for long enough to know that Danny – while nice and sweet and various other grossly clichéd adjectives – was not your type. No idea what _is_ , but I can’t say I blame you for having a dalliance. Your sex life did sound depressingly vanilla.”

“I never told you about my sex life!” 

“Exactly. So, who was he? Or she? Oh, my god, please tell me it was a she.” 

“It was a he.” 

Amy sighed in disappointment. “You haven’t brought any nice girls home since… god knows. Wait; there was that one… Andrea something? Worked in the Physics department?” 

“Quill? She was definitely not ‘nice.’ Why are you so invested in me bringing home girls, anyway? Are you trying to tell me something, Amelia?” 

Amy rolled her eyes good-naturedly at Clara’s suggestion. “Dream on. No, it’s because they’re nice, they’re good for your sex life, they invariably have nice clothes that they let me borrow if you keep them around long enough, and it means we get to have girls’ nights.” 

“And…?” Clara asked, sensing there would be another reason and putting down her still-mostly full mug in readiness to potentially punch her flatmate in the arm. 

“And it’s endlessly entertaining going on double dates with you and ladies, because Rory’s eyes nearly fall out of his head, and he forgets how his brain works. Particularly if there’s snogging involved.” 

Clara laughed. “I think that’s _you_ having that effect on him.” 

“I try. I still haven’t told him about that drunk snog we had back at uni. I think he might genuinely short-circuit at the mental image.”

“It’s probable,” Clara concurred. “Sadly, _he_ was not a _she._ His name was Will. He had a bow-tie and a ludicrous tweed jacket. It had _elbow patches_. Drunk Clara does not make good life choices.” 

“Well, was the sex any good, at least?” 

“Amy!” Clara grimaced at the frank question, putting her hands over her face as she felt herself blush. “Why are you not throwing the book at me about this?” 

“Because this is the most interesting thing you’ve done in six months.” 

“I hate you.” 

“I should really start charging you every time you say that, you know? £1 for each offence,” Amy winked. “ _Was_ the sex any good?” 

Clara grinned, looking up at her flatmate, guiltily. “Mind-blowing.” 

“There,” Amy gave her a smug look. “It wasn’t a completely wasted endeavour, then.” 

“Still feel bad though,” Clara confessed, her good mood evaporating as she cast her mind back over the conversation she’d had with John in the English office. “I got annoyed at John because he kept being nice about it and I didn’t deserve that and I wanted him to tell me how awful I was, and-” 

“Oswald, your brain is an actual mess,” Amy interjected, reaching over and taking her flatmate’s hand, before squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s concerning me.” 

“That’s what he said,” Clara made a face, trying to sound light-hearted. “Said I should see a counsellor. He thought I was suicidal.” 

“ _Are_ you suicidal?” Amy asked, visibly alarmed at the prospect. “Because I can call Rory if you need me to-”

“I’m not,” Clara said at once, shaking her head and trying to pull her hand away from Amy only to find her friend gripping it all the more tightly, her thumb stroking soothing circles across the knuckles. “It’s… difficult to explain. Just a bit…” she gestured vaguely with her free hand, hoping that would suffice by way of an explanation. “Weird.” 

“Is it like you want things to stop?” Amy asked, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Like you would give anything to make amends with the person who died?”

“Yeah,” Clara concurred, looking down at her lap. “Exactly like that.”

“I was the same when Mels died, you know,” Amy reached over and tilted Clara’s head up, forcing her to make eye contact. “But you can’t let that consume you. You’ve got people here who care about you. A lot of people.”

“Such as?” 

“Me, and Rory, and your dad-”

“My dad married Linda and stopped giving a crap about anything I did.” 

“I sincerely doubt that; the man gets proud of you for putting the bins out. You’ve also got John Smith, apparently, so who’s the real winner here? Hm? Oh yeah, you. You have a concerned celebrity on your side.” Amy side-eyed her flatmate, and Clara knew what her next question would be. “Did you get Will’s number? I’m sure he’d care.” 

“Yeah, about getting laid again. No, I didn’t. Didn’t even get his last name.” 

“You’re hopeless.” 

“Well, I wasn’t looking for anything that long-term!” Clara argued, frowning slightly at Amy’s suggestion. “It’s fine, OK? I will be fine.” 

“You will not be fine. You’re a terrible liar, Clara, and I’m worried about you.” 

“I hate you,” Clara mumbled, but her heart wasn’t in the off-the-cuff remark. “A lot.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Clara sighed, touched by her flatmate’s compassion for her. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are, you hopeless disaster,” Amy pulled Clara into a hug, pressing a kiss to her temple and then resting her forehead against her friend’s. “Look, just… go and see the counsellor I saw after Mels. I think his name was Doctor Moon.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Clara asked, squirming away from Amy fractionally, in order to look up at her with a bemused expression. “That’s a fake name.”

“Nope, it’s his real name. It was the first thing I asked him. He’s wonderful. Not patronising, unlike some of the idiots I saw. I think he’ll help you a lot.”

“Dare I ask how much sessions are? Because, you know, broke English teacher.” 

“He costs things on a case-by-case basis,” Amy assured her, kissing Clara’s forehead again. “So, just… give it a shot, yeah? For me? Please?” 

Clara sighed. “Fine,” she acquiesced reluctantly. “Fine, I’ll go and see this Doctor Spaceman. For you.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is determined to make amends with John, but finds herself encumbered by and over-exuberant chap she meets in a coffee shop...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I laughed so hard writing this chapter. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Clara looked down at her coffee cup, running her finger around the rim absent-mindedly as she flicked through the materials that her counsellor had given her earlier that evening. Although she would never admit it aloud, Amy had been right – Doctor Moon was wonderful and minimally patronising, and Clara’s burden of guilt was beginning to ease with each session she attended. Deciding to read the therapeutic activities and articles more thoroughly over the weekend, she checked her phone, then shoved the wodge of papers back into her bag, downing the remains of her coffee and shrugging on her jacket as she squinted through the glass window beside her, trying to establish how dark it was. Getting up and fumbling through her bag for a compact mirror to check her reflection, Clara was only dimly aware of her surroundings as she left the coffee shop, the tepid September evening making her shiver.

“Cold?” an unfamiliar voice asked, and she jumped, spinning to take in the sight of a man in a forest green suit and winkle-picker shoes, leaning against a lamppost and stroking a ridiculous pointed beard as he surveyed her with an arrogant smirk. “I could help with that.” 

She scowled instinctively, appraising the man with practiced ease. “Who the hell are you?” 

“I was watching you,” he grinned, as though his actions were entirely normal. “Not that you noticed; you were far too caught up in those materials of yours. I _love_ a woman who reads.” 

“All women read,” Clara snapped, mentally adding _asshole_ to the end of the utterance. “In my experience, at least.” 

“But not all women read print media,” the man sighed theatrically, as though he were imparting a great and noble truth. “And those who do tend to favour ludicrous rags like _Cosmo_ or _Vogue._ I do so like a woman who reads something more substantial than makeup advice and the captions of pretty pictures.” 

“I read _Cosmo_ ,” Clara lied, purely for the satisfaction of seeing the man’s smug facial expression slip for half a second. “And _Vogue,_ actually.”

“Well,” he said with an unnecessary amount of affront, as though the very suggestion of her reading such magazines offended him. “That can be changed. I like to think that I’m a good influence on the women I date.” 

“Sorry, I don’t even _know_ you,” Clara reminded him, equal parts irritated by his manner and amused by his cheek. “Why would you be a good influence, whatever-the-hell-your-name-is?” 

“It’s Rob,” he told her, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a business card, holding it out to Clara with a flourish. “Rob Locksley.” 

“Get out,” she said in disbelief, looking down at the business card she’d just been handed. It was printed on thick paper and was embossed with golden lettering, spelling out _Robin_ _Locksley. Financier at Sherwood Associates._ “This is some kind of joke, right? You can’t actually be called Robin Locksley.” 

“My parents had a wonderful sense of humour,” Rob intimated, looking pleased that she’d picked up on the connection. “But…”

“You take from the rich to give to the rich, yeah. Not living up to your name, are you?”

“Oh, but I’d disagree,” he argued, feigning offence. “I do a great deal of charity work.” 

“Good for you.” 

“I help underprivileged children in Africa, you know? It’s just so reward-” 

“That’s nice,” Clara muttered, looking along the street towards her intended destination in the hope it might shut him up. “I have somewhere to be, actually...” 

“Me too!” Rob enthused, and Clara rolled her eyes at his irksome persistence, grateful for the semi-darkness that hid her disdain. “Whereabouts? Let me be your companion for the duration of your journey.” 

“I’m honestly fine.” 

“Don’t be preposterous! A young woman like yourself should not be out alone on a dark night.” 

“It’s really not that dark, and I’m really not going that far.” 

“Nevertheless, I shall assist you, fair maiden.” 

“I know taekwondo,” Clara said as politely as she could manage. “I also have fingernails, and a very heavy bag, and a loud voice. Should any muggers or rapists come near me, I think I’ll be OK.”

“One can never be too careful in this awful city,” Rob murmured, holding out his arm to Clara insistently. “M’lady…” 

“It’s Clara, since you didn’t ask.” 

“Well, madam Clara. Let us walk to…”

“I’m walking to TARDIS House; again, since you didn’t ask,” she stepped away from his proffered arm and grimaced. “Also, less of the ‘madam.’ I’m not married.” 

“I refuse to believe it!” Rob blustered, looking scandalised at the revelation. “A beautiful woman such as yourself!”

“Well, I refused to believe he was dead as well, for all the good it did me.” 

Rob blinked at her in consternation for several seconds, and Clara shoved her hands in her pockets, beginning to walk away from him in the direction of John’s workplace. She needed to apologise to him for her behaviour several weeks ago, and she’d be damned if this tenacious city boy was going to stop her from making that apology. 

“I’m terribly sorry, madam,” Rob announced with a stupefying lack of sincerity, beginning to trot along behind her like a particularly determined puppy. “That is most unfortunate.” 

“You could call it that, yeah.” 

“Might I enquire as to the manner of his passing? Was it most unexpected?” 

An idea struck Clara, and she grinned to herself as she formulated a tall tale. “Well,” she began, determined to get rid of this irritating man once and for all. “It was most unexpected for him, but I’d been planning it for a while. You know, acquiring the right tablets and such. It wasn’t difficult to feed them to him, and convince the coroner he had a drug problem.” 

To his credit, Rob only looked terrified for half a beat before breaking into overly-enthusiastic laughter. “Oh, you do jest so spectacularly!” he roared, between cries of mirth. “What a joker!” 

“What makes you think I’m joking?” she asked him levelly, trying to look as evil as she could manage. “The bastard had it coming.” 

“Oh, my,” he chortled, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “A woman such as yourself is far too gentle for murder.” 

“I’ll murder _you_ if you don’t leave me alone.” 

“What fond words,” he smiled benignly. “You are much too kind.” 

“Seriously, please leave me alone.” 

“I cannot possibly leave a woman alone in a busy city on a Friday night! That would be most unchivalrous!” 

“Right, because refusing to leave me alone _isn’t_?” 

“It is the honourable thing to do.” 

“I really don’t give a shit, just fuck off.” 

“Your words wound me.”

“Good. Leave me alone.”

“Never,” Rob countered, and Clara groaned aloud, no longer bothering to hide her sour mood. “TARDIS House is in a most undesirable part of the city. I could not possibly allow you to walk there alone.” 

“It’s just off Regent Street…”

“Exactly! Full of brigands and pickpockets!” 

“You’re insane. Like, actually insane.” 

“No, ma’am, I’m ready for every eventuality! At work, they call me Scout. I’m prepared for anything.”

“Do they call you anything else?” Clara wondered aloud. “‘Annoying,’ perhaps?” 

“Very witty,” Rob burst into bellows of mirth again, much to Clara’s considerable consternation. “No, they adore me, as I adore them. Not in a homoerotic way, of course.” 

“Did you actually just ‘no homo’ your workplace?” Clara grimaced. “Jesus Christ.”

“Such a colloquialism is beneath me, but perhaps I share the sentiment.” 

“Right. Maybe don’t use ‘no homo’ on a bisexual English teacher.” 

“Oh!” Rob’s face lit up like a lantern. “That is wonderful! How terribly progressive of you! Although if you had a boyfriend, can you truly be considered bisexual? _That_ is a real question of our time.” 

Clara stopped walking, staring at Rob in open incredulity before regaining her composure. “I’ve sat on enough women’s faces to be considered definitively bisexual, thanks,” she told him, coolly. “Certainly more than you have.” 

To her considerable irritation, Rob broke into fresh gales of laughter, stopping to bend double as he did so. Clara only rolled her eyes and continued walking, crossing the road before he could regain a modicum of self-control and follow her. 

“Hey!” he called, ceasing to hoot with mirth but still chuckling as he pursued her doggedly onto the opposite pavement. “That was a superb retort, milady, but alas, sadly not true.” 

“Right.” 

“I am knee-deep in attractive women.” 

“Knee-deep?” Clara feigned a frown, wondering quite how rude she would have to be before he would leave her alone. “I don’t think you’re doing sex quite right. That or your dick is really small.”

“I will have you know that my manhood is mighty,” he told her, and Clara felt a childish sense of triumph as she noted his stung tone. “Extremely so.” 

“Right.”

“I have never received a single complaint.”

“Or orgasm,” Clara muttered, then added, more loudly. “Well, look! I’ve almost reached my destination. You can leave now.”

“Are you going inside?” 

“Waiting for a friend.” 

“Well, I couldn’t possibly leave you alone to wait!” 

“You really could.” 

“Do not be so preposterous.” 

Clara groaned, looking up at the building that lay before them and praying that Rob could be dissuaded from waiting with her for however long it took for John to appear. “Please.” 

“It would be most ungentlemanly of me.” 

“And kicking you in the balls would be most unladylike of _me_ , but needs must, eh?” 

“A lady such as yourself would never stoop to such violence.” 

“Debatable,” Clara muttered, looking longingly to the building’s glass front doors, beyond which she could see a stylish, comfortable reception area. She looked around, trying to work out how to gain entry, before noticing a card-swipe pad and groaning inwardly. “Highly debatable.” 

“Are you not going to enter the building?” Rob asked, looking at her in confusion. “For if you are going to wait out here, allow me to offer you my jacket, lest you freeze.” He shrugged off the garment and stepped towards Clara with it held aloft, ignoring her shuffling away from him and look of anger on her face. Just as she clenched her fists and prepared to swing at the guy, she felt an arm wrap around her waist and a kiss pressed into her hair. 

“There you are, beautiful,” came a warm American voice. “I was worried about you. Did you get held up?” 

Clara twisted in the unfamiliar arms and looked up at the speaker, blinking at the tall, good-looking stranger who had come to rescue and feeling herself blush as he tipped her a wink. “Yeah,” she squeaked after a brief pause. “There was… traffic.” 

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.” He cast a dismissive look over at Rob. “Can I help you, buddy?” 

“I… urm…” Rob stammered, and Clara couldn’t help but smirk at the look on his face as he clutched his jacket to his chest. “Are you her…” 

“Boyfriend, yes,” the man beamed with pride, looking down at Clara with surprising tenderness. “Isn’t she gorgeous? I really am a lucky guy.” 

“Darling, you’re too sweet,” Clara managed after a moment, feigning a giggle before turning her attention back to the dejected-looking financier stood before her. “Have a nice night, Ross.”

“It’s Rob.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, as her saviour turned away from Rob and headed towards TARDIS House, keeping his arm around her waist as he did so. “Bye.” 

“But-” 

“Ignore him,” the stranger murmured in her ear, reaching over and swiping an access card before leading Clara inside the building. “What a total jerk.” 

“Thanks,” Clara stammered, still somewhat taken aback by the situation, stepping away from him only when she was sure that Rob had gone. “Urm, not to be rude, but who are you?” 

“My apologies, ma’am,” he grinned, and somehow the term didn’t seem creepy when he said it. “I’m Captain Jack Harkness, pleased to be at your service. Yourself? A pretty woman like you must have an equally lovely name.” 

“I’m Clara Oswald. What are you a captain of?” 

“Security, Miss Oswald. I take security very seriously here at TARDIS House. Was minding my own business at reception when I saw that creep hounding you, and I couldn’t just leave you out there floundering, now, could I?”

“Thanks,” Clara mumbled shyly, looking down at the floor in embarrassment. “That was kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome, ma’am. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?” 

“I’m actually here to see someone,” she admitted, looking back up at Jack as she spoke. “John Smith.” 

“Oh!” Jack’s face lit up with realisation, and, if anything, his smile widened. “You’re the Impossible Girl! It’s an absolute honour to meet you, Miss Oswald. Truly. John has been so invested in you – we all have, here at Radio TARDIS.” 

“I… well…” she began, unsure how to respond. “You can call me Clara, you know.”

“Well, Clara, would you like a drink while you wait for Mr Smith?” 

“Shouldn’t you be… oh, I don’t know, securing things?” 

“Should be, but I can take a couple of minutes to make a gorgeous woman a drink and enjoy it with her.”

Clara blushed and cast her gaze back down to her feet, having grown unaccustomed to such flattery in the months since Danny’s death. Somehow Jack managed to be charming, in sharp contrast with Rob and his obliviousness to her lack of interest. “Tea, please. Black, no sugar.” 

“You surprise me.” 

“In what way?” 

“You seem – if you’ll forgive me – far too delicate for such a drink, Miss Oswald.”

“Clara.” 

“Clara,” he smiled winningly. “I’ll be right back, ma’am.” He vanished down a corridor, and Clara giggled, looking around the reception area before sinking down onto a sofa to await his return. He appeared again moments later, holding aloft a tray bearing a floral-patterned teapot, two mugs, and an elegant milk jug with a finely turned handle, sinking down on the sofa beside her and placing the tray down with care. 

“You _are_ full of surprises,” she observed. “An American who can make tea?” 

“My boyfriend is Welsh, and he’s terribly fond of a good mug of tea at the end of the working day. Had to learn to cater to his tastes.” 

“Does your boyfriend know you flirt with pretty women?” Clara asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“No,” Jack winked. “He knows I flirt with _beautiful_ women. Don’t sell yourself short.” 

Clara giggled again as Jack poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her, watching as he poured one for himself before settling back against the sofa cushions and offering her a warm smile. “You’re terribly charming.”

“I try, I really do. I can’t let the douchebag guys of the world give us all a bad name.” 

“Rest assured, I don’t think all men are like the guy you saved me from.” 

“Well, I’d be more than happy to take you for dinner to further reinforce that thought.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Clara asked, taking a sip of her tea and trying to look coy. 

“It’s a flexible arrangement,” Jack shot back, sipping at his own tea and meeting her gaze levelly. “So?” 

“Clara?” an angry Scottish voice interjected, and Clara jumped, looking up and taking in the sight of John, looming over her in a black velvet coat and a pair of ridiculous sunglasses. “Why are you flirting with the security guy?” 

“‘The security guy’ would like to remind you that his name is Jack,” Jack interjected, flashing John a dazzling smile. “And to be fair, _I_ was flirting with Miss Oswald, not the other way around.” 

“Your boyfriend just died,” John said pointedly, ignoring Jack in favour of scowling at Clara. “Need I remind you?”

“What, so I can’t talk to a man now? I talked to you, didn’t I? I talk to my flatmate’s boyfriend. What does that make me? A slut?” Clara snapped. “Archaic, much?” She set her teacup down with more force than was strictly necessary, its contents slopping out and spilling into the saucer, before getting to her feet and offering Jack an apologetic glance. “Nice meeting you. Thanks for the tea, but I’d best be going before the caveman here sticks me in a sack and carries me off.” 

“It’s no worries, ma’am,” Jack got to his feet and stooped, kissing the back of Clara’s hand before straightening up again and offering her a mock-salute. “It’s been a pleasure.” 

“Clara-” John began.

She shot him a filthy look and stormed from the building, making it almost as far as the street before a hand grabbed her shoulder and she spun on her heel impatiently, knowing full well who it would be. “What?” she asked, twisting out of his grip. “Fuck off, alright?” 

“Clara, I’m sorry,” John said with sincerity, his expression surprisingly contrite. “I was just… it was… I was out of line. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.” 

“I have places to be,” Clara lied, gesturing vaguely. “People to meet.” 

“You were waiting for me!” 

“Yeah, to apologise to you. But you’re not getting an apology now, because you’ve acted like a dick.” 

“I absolutely deserve that, just… look, I’m sorry for being a Neanderthal. Please, look… if you’re busy now, can you meet me next weekend for coffee? So that I can make it up to you, and because… well, I’ve got a proposal for you.” 

“What kind of proposal?” Clara asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. 

“I can’t say now,” he sighed. “Just… please.” 

“When?” Clara asked in resignation, her curiosity getting the better of her. “And where?” 

“A week tomorrow?” John chanced. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, right? So, yeah, a week tomorrow. Mettricks’ Coffee House. It’s in Hammersmith. 11 a.m. sound OK?” 

“Sure,” Clara agreed, nodding against her better judgement. “Sure, I’ll see you then.”

To her surprise, John beamed at her. “Great,” he enthused. “I’ll see you then.” 

Clara nodded and forced a smile, then turned back to the road, wandering towards the Tube station in the darkening twilight.

So, John had a proposal for her. She could only wonder what the hell it might be.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John meet for coffee, and John has a proposal for Clara...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you're all enjoying this so much! Now, finally, what you've all been waiting for...

Clara checked her reflection in a compact mirror for the fifth time in as many minutes, turning her head from side to side to assess her makeup from every angle. Rich brown lipstick had seemed like a good idea upon leaving the house – in keeping with the season, and all – but, upon arriving at the coffee shop, she’d gained nothing but dark looks from fellow patrons, and she was growing increasingly self-conscious with each passing minute. She was on the verge of scrubbing it off with a cheap paper napkin and choosing something more muted from her makeup bag when she sensed someone behind her. 

“Relax,” came a familiar Scottish voice, and she snapped the compact shut and swivelled in her seat to take in the sight of John, resplendent in plaid trousers and a black hoodie, grinning at her warmly. “You look fine.” 

“And you look like a teenage boy,” she said with incredulity, and he chuckled at her words as she flushed, realising she sounded rude. “Sorry, that was…”

“Refreshingly honest,” he told her, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Coffee?” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I’d like to get you a drink,” he frowned, then amended: “If that would be alright. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of male chauvinist pig, or that I’m patronising you. Just… figured it would be a nice thing to do.” 

“Coffee would be… nice,” Clara decided after a moment, offering him a shy smile and trying to silence her inner feminist, who was protesting loudly at the thought of being bought coffee. “Caramel latte please.” 

“Any specifics? Skinny, soya, decaf?” 

“No, thanks,” she shook her head. “I’m an easy date.” 

John arched an eyebrow, and she turned crimson as she realised the implications of her words. “A date?” 

“You know,” she mumbled lamely, wishing the floor would swallow her up, but feeling grateful that John didn’t seem too bothered by the term. “A friend… date.”

“Are we friends now?” John asked, his expression deadly serious as he looked at her with wide eyes. “Only you keep punching me and telling me what a wanker I am.” 

“I…” Clara began, disconcerted by his frank tone. “I… we… that is…” 

To her surprise, he burst into laughter, and she realised that he was teasing her. “I’m just messing with you, Clara,” he grinned. “I’ll be back with coffee for my _friend_ in a moment.” 

Clara blushed again as John disappeared towards the counter, pulling out her phone and typing out a message to Amy: _Told him I’m an easy date then went the colour of a tomato._

The reply came seconds later, and Clara could picture her housemate’s smirk as she read it: _Keep your knickers on, Oswald._

She rolled her eyes and fired back: _Please. Just because you’re secretly lusting after him._

_Scottish men don’t do it for me. Make good choices, babe._

Clara sighed and put her phone away, watching John at the counter as he chatted to the barista making their drinks. Despite the terrible, mismatched, borderline-hipster clothes, she had to admit he was fairly good-looking. Irritatingly tall, certainly, in a way that pretty much everyone other than her was, but she could overlook that in favour of recognising that he was handsome in a way she couldn’t entirely pinpoint. Perhaps it was the hair. Or the two-day stubble. _Oswald,_ she told herself, _be good._  

As she watched, he turned back towards her and met her gaze with an easy smile, holding their drinks before him on a tray as he navigated the bustling coffee shop, finally setting the tray down before her with a flourish. “One caramel latte, no frills, no fancy stuff. One Americano, because I’m a boring old git, and also one slice of chocolate cake for the lady.” 

“You didn’t need to get me cake.” 

“Well, tough shit, you have cake now,” he smirked, reaching for his own drink and sliding the plate towards her, holding a fork out that she eyed warily. “I’ll eat if you don’t want it.”

“Was this a cunning tactical move?” 

“Depends on if you eat it or not, I suppose,” he deadpanned, as she took the fork and used it to break off a slice of cake, nibbling at it as elegantly as she could manage. “Anyway, you’re welcome.” 

“Thanks,” Clara mumbled at once, embarrassed by her lack of manners and feeling her cheeks burn again. She took another bite of cake before adding: “For the coffee and cake.” 

“You blush a lot.” 

“It’s hot in here.”

“Do I embarrass you?” John asked, grinning as she scowled at him over her coffee mug. “Is that it?”

“No,” she shot back, taking a sip and then poking her tongue out at him. “I’m just nervous.”

“Of me?” he looked surprised, adding sugar to his mug and then downing half of it in one go. “Why? I don’t bite. Terrible taste in coffee, but other than that.” 

“Tabloid campaign,” she reminded him, raising her eyebrows and taking another mouthful of cake. “Not to mention turning up at my school, and telling me off for flirting with your doorman.” 

“ _He_ was flirting with _you_ ,” John corrected, sipping his coffee. “He does that with everyone, it’s not a big deal. But you’re right: I was a prick, I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you were,” Clara said boldly, looking up to meet John’s gaze with a twinkle in her eye that she tried to attribute to a sugar buzz. “Maybe just a little.”

“Cheeky.” 

“But true,” Clara grinned and took a proper sip of her coffee, closing her eyes to savour the taste. “God, that’s good. I might have to start forsaking Costa.” 

“Traipsing over to Hammersmith for coffee every day seems impractical,” John mused. “But I see your point.” 

“True,” she groaned, feigning anguish. “Why did I have to pick a school in Shoreditch?” 

“Why _did_ you?” John asked curiously. “I mean, teaching in general… how did you get into it?” 

“Oh god,” Clara sighed, feeling her cheeks beginning to go pink again. “It’s such a cliché, but I always wanted to teach. Ever since I was really tiny, I used to do ‘lessons’ for my parents. It was really awful for them, but they put up with me making them do English classes about my Barbie books and my favourite cartoons, and it got me here, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.” 

“You must have been cute – tiny and bossy, but cute.” 

“I was _annoying,_ ” she told him, embarrassed by the memories. “But I ended up where I want to be, and teaching is great – most of the time. Meeting Danny was a surprise bonus that came from it, really, but…” she shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Turned into a bit of a nightmare. I thought I might pack it in after he died – I didn’t know if I wanted to carry on, especially not at Coal Hill. But the kids were great about it all, actually. They came to his funeral and sent flowers and the like, and just… I realised I couldn’t let them down by leaving them.” 

“Did I help, too?” John teased. 

“Maybe a bit,” Clara smiled, finishing her slice of cake and trying to muster the courage to say what she needed to say. “I’m glad I went back, John, so… thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“How did you get back to radio? You know, after… her?” 

“It took me a long time,” he admitted, staring down into his mug and taking mechanical sips before continuing. “Once Missy made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t going to let me drink myself into an early grave and forced me into going to AA meetings, things started to improve. Well, in between all the withdrawal, and cursing her for existing, and hating myself, and crying, anyway. Swore I wouldn’t go back into radio, though. Swore off the media. Said it reminded me too much of River, and I just… I couldn’t face that. But then I actually started looking for normal jobs – you know, offices and shite like that – and it was a nightmare. I wasn’t qualified to do anything. I tried to get into the BBC, but they didn’t want me ruining their perfect fucking reputation – excuse my language – and so I was about to give up when Missy pulled some strings and got me back into Radio TARDIS. Yeah, the slot sucks, but… it’s better than nothing, right? That’s what I figured.”

“Right,” Clara said gently, smiling and taking another sip of her drink as John looked down at his own in subdued silence. “She’d have wanted you to be happy, you know.”

His head snapped up, and for a second she thought she may have crossed a line. “Really?” he asked, and she was surprised to see that his eyes were wet with tears. “You think?”

“Of course. She’d wanted you to do what you loved, rather than sitting around moping and crying into your coffee. Danny would’ve wanted the same for me, so that’s what I’m trying to do. He wasn’t a ‘sit around in black and mourn me’ type. Thought that kind of thing went out of fashion with Queen Victoria.” 

“What was he like?” John asked, and Clara smiled sadly. “Other than that, I mean.” 

“Kind,” she said without hesitation, fighting to keep her composure. “He’d have done anything for anyone, he was that sort of man. He loved to do nice things for people, and help them – that’s why he was such a good teacher. He wanted to make a difference to the kids, and he really did.” 

“But you felt…” 

“I don’t know,” Clara sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt. “He was lovely, John, like you have to understand that, just… I don’t know. I couldn’t see myself with him forever. Does that make me a bad person?” 

“Not really,” John shrugged. “You either know right away that you want to be with someone forever, or you don’t.”

“You don’t think that that feeling can… I don’t know, grow?” 

“Did you give it time to?” John asked, and Clara fell silent, considering the question. 

“I guess,” she said after a moment. “I kind of expected it to just _happen_ , but it never did. I never had that lightning moment, or that creeping realisation. That’s why the wedding idea seemed… scary.”

“Oh!” John’s face lit up, inexplicably, at her words, and Clara felt a minor stab of panic. “Speaking of weddings…” 

“We are not eloping to Gretna Green,” Clara said with a straight face, watching his look of horror and dissolving into giggles. “Kidding. I’m kidding. We aren’t, though.” 

“Good to know,” he said drily. “Look, I have a proposal for you.” 

“I know,” Clara reminded him. “That’s why I’m here, and not at home marking. If that proposal is Gretna Green though, I’m out. You’re a lovely guy, John, but it’s a no from me.”

“It’s not Gretna Green!”

“Good, what is it then?” 

“I’d tell you if you stopped interrupting,” he rolled his eyes impatiently, and she bit back another giggle. “I just thought… y’know… we could be pals. And talk about things from time to time. As pals.” 

“Pals?” she raised an eyebrow at his phrasing. 

“Yeah, you know. Mates.” 

“Fine,” she agreed, before she could think about the ramifications of such an agreement. “On one condition.” 

“Name it.” 

“You don’t use anymore weird synonyms for it, and just call yourself a _friend_.”

“Deal,” he chuckled, then narrowed his eyes. “Does this mean no more punching me?” 

“Depends on how annoying you are,” Clara winked at him and pointedly flexed her fingers. “Can’t make any promises, can I?” 

He beamed, ignoring her teasing threat, and took a large gulp of coffee instead. “Great,” he said happily. “Grief buddies it is.” 

“If you say that again, I _will_ punch you. And it would be nice to have something else to talk about. I feel like I’m all griefed out at present, so, any conversational topics other than that would be greatly appreciated.” 

“Suggestions?”

“I dunno,” Clara made a face, weighing up her options. “…Netflix?”

“I don’t even know what that is, Clara.” 

“Politics?” 

“My political opinions extend to ‘Fuck the Tories.’”

“Well, we agree on that, so that’ll be a short conversation. Urm, football?” 

“My knowledge of football is limited to Scottish teams, and I doubt you know much on the topic.”

“Sexist, but fair, Danny used to inflict _Match of the Day_ on me but that was my limit. Music?” 

“Ah, music,” John grinned serenely. “Music… _that_ I can do. None of this modern rubbish, though.” 

“No, definitely none of this modern rubbish,” Clara concurred, grimacing at the thought. “All about the classics.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, you know…” she chewed her lip, thinking for a moment. “Sinatra. The Beatles. Bit of Queen, bit of Quo.” 

“Wow,” John let out a low whistle, visibly in awe of her choices. “I’m impressed.” 

“Why?”

“It’s unusual to find someone your age who likes the greats,” he told her with a casual shrug. “So, you’re a welcome surprise.” 

“Good to know,” she smiled, looking down at her now-empty plate. “Mum was a rocker, and dad kind of… whole-heartedly went along with it. He did that a lot with Mum. Got on board with whatever she was enthusiastic about, without really developing his own passions.” 

“She sounds like quite a woman, your mum.”

“She was,” Clara said with pride. “Plus, she introduced me to your show, so you really have her to thank for me being here.” 

John raised his coffee cup in a toast. “To your ma.” 

Clara laughed and clinked her mug against his. “To my mum. You’re really quite Scottish, I have mentioned that, right?” 

“Aye,” he said in a broadly Glaswegian burr, and Clara grinned. “I try.” 

“It’s a good accent,” Clara admitted. “Strong, but good.” 

“Yours has almost gone,” he observed. “You sound all… London.”

“Common complaint,” she grimaced. “Phoning my dad up is like phoning the accent police. He gets really funny about it.”

“That bad?” 

“That bad. He gets all, ‘Don’t forget from whence you came,’ and self-righteous about it. It’s actually quite annoying.”

“Sounds it,” John made a face. “Do you miss it?” 

“Blackpool?” Clara shook her head. “No, not really. It’s been such a long time, and the whole place reminds me too much of Mum for it to be any kind of comfort. Not to mention Dad’s got an idiotic new wife, so if I lived up there I’d have to contend with her pretty regularly, and I don’t have enough patience for that.” 

“What’s she like?” 

“Your typical wicked stepmother,” Clara scowled, reflexively. “Tory. Self-righteous. Hates me.” 

“She sounds delightful. Glad I never had to deal with that.” 

“Lucky you,” she said wistfully. “You can have Linda, if you want.” 

“I think I’ll pass,” John teased, before frowning and pulling out his vibrating phone. “Ach, c’mon…”

“What?”

“It’s my boss…” he sighed in irritation, typing out a reply as he spoke. “Wants to drag me in for a performance review. Now. Like I don’t have plans.” 

“Sounds thrilling.” 

“I can tell him no? I’d rather chat to you some more.” 

“Don’t be daft,” Clara scoffed. “You can’t bail on the boss.” 

“I definitely could.”

“John.” 

“But…” 

“Hey, we’re friends now,” she reminded him with a playful grin. “We could do this every week, if you wanted.” 

“Really?” she watched as he realised she was serious and his face lit up. “Seriously?

“Of course, idiot,” she reached for a paper napkin and fished around in her bag for a biro, jotting down her number on a corner and then handing it to John. “There’s my number. Feel free to phone it, just not while you’re on air.” 

“Yes, boss.” 

“I’m the boss now, am I?”

He sighed. “Sadly not, or I could dodge this stupid meeting.” He got to his feet and offered her an apologetic smile. “Until next week?”

“Until next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to anyone who got the Hamilton reference.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John meet up a second time, and both end up confessing more than they should. This time, however, Clara has a request for John...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adorable idiots being adorable idiots. Enjoy the fluff.

John knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it was widely considered clingy to text someone straight after seeing them in person, particularly someone you barely knew. Or so the youths of today seemed to think, anyway, for reasons he had never fully grasped. Something to do with appearing apathetic, in a way that he found distinctly unappealing. Not fully accustomed to texting etiquette, a louder part of his brain demanded he text Clara _at once,_ and so he found himself walking to the Tube, firing off a text as he skirted obstacles and passers-by with practiced ease. 

_Was nice to see you. Same time and place next week? Or closer to you? John._

Her response came at once, and he beamed down at the screen of his phone unabashedly. 

_Of course. Bit closer to me would be good though –_ _Trago Lounge. (Google it.) Don’t be late and try not to get called into any more performance reviews._

John chuckled to himself as he entered the Tube station, a spring in his step, and he was pleasantly surprised to find his train already at the platform in what could only be a fortuitous omen of… something. He sank into a seat with a grin, already anticipating next weekend.

 

* * *

 

Trago Lounge was, in all honesty, not the kind of coffee shop John would have chosen to frequent. The floor was uneven and comprised of rough-hewn wooden floorboards; the walls were covered in mismatched pictures and antique mirrors which concealed a floral wallpaper that made his eyes water; and the lighting was dim at best, dark at worst. He spotted Clara at once, ensconced in a corner and lit by the glow from her MacBook screen, and he raised a hand in greeting, watching her return his smile back as he wove between tables and sank into the chintz-upholstered chair opposite her. She closed her laptop and grinned, indicating two mugs of coffee that sat before her, alongside a slice of chocolate cake that rested on a pink-and-gold plate. 

“Ta-dah,” she said with a flourish, reaching for the mug to her right, and John was pleased to note that the drink contained within was still steaming. “Coffee and a repayment slice of cake. I only just ordered, so nice timing.” 

“Not sure about the plate,” he admitted before he could stop himself, eyeing it warily before transferring his attention to the fancy, delicate-looking cake fork that lay beside it. “It’s very… pink.” 

“To be honest, I’m not sure about this café,” Clara told him, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially in a way that gave John flashbacks to the political meetings of his youth. “It just seemed like a good place to meet on grounds of being dark.” 

“I’m not that ugly,” he teased. “Am I?” 

“Don’t be daft,” she said at once, taking a sip of her coffee and making a surprised face. “Just thought it might mean you don’t get bothered by adoring fans. That place last week, well… they knew you, so they left you alone – here people might not. Ergo, if it’s dark, you get to enjoy coffee with me in peace.” 

“Impressive forethought,” John acquiesced, forsaking the cake fork in favour picking up the slice of cake with his hands. He grimaced as his fingers sunk into the icing, but took a bite and grinned appreciatively at the rich taste. “Goo’ cake.” 

“I think it’s gluten-free and vegan, or something,” Clara shrugged, evidently bemused by the thought. “So’s the coffee.”

“Christ,” he mumbled, taking another bite and talking with his mouth full, yet finding himself not caring. “If this is vegan and all that shite, then sign me up to their cause.” 

She laughed, sipping her own coffee again and swiping at the dusty pink lipstick mark she left on the white mug. “You look very… fish out of water in here. It’s not very rock and roll.”

“Well, you look very much at home,” he told her honestly, wiping his fingers on a napkin before gesturing to her floral dress and then at the wallpaper. “Very coordinated.” 

“Oh, hell,” she groaned, much to his amusement. “I didn’t think about that. Please know that I don’t generally attempt to match the décor of coffee houses.”

“Sure,” he said with a smirk, taking a long swig of coffee and finding himself pleasantly surprised. “God, that’s not bad. For vegan shite.” 

“Always the tone of surprise.” 

“Did you just quote Harry Potter at me?” 

“Did you just _recognise_ a Harry Potter quote?” Clara shot back, and John blushed, realising he should have known better than to quote literature at an English teacher. “It’s not too dark for me to see you go red, you know.” 

“River was into all that shite,” he muttered, still embarrassed. “They were… surprisingly engrossing, not to mention a godsend when I couldn’t sleep.”

“You really _are_ a dark horse, aren’t you?” Clara smiled kindly at him, and he leant back in his chair, trying to survey her coolly, but falling somewhat short. “The hard rocker reads Harry Potter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he took another sip of coffee, attempting to hide behind the brightly patterned mug. “What were you working on?” He gestured to her laptop. “Fancy-arse laptop generally indicates something exciting.” 

“God, no,” she laughed a little at his insinuation. “Syllabuses, lesson plans, marks. That kind of thing. Work, work, and more work. The laptop was ah… well, it was from Danny. My old one packed it in and he was all about tech and specs and Apple and all of that; I just went along with it to humour him. Speaking of work – how was that thing with your boss? You know, that so rudely cut short our time together last week?” 

“Boring,” John huffed. “Raz – that’s my boss – wanted to chat about music choices, that kind of thing. Nothing all that exciting. Nothing that couldn’t have waited until I got into work.” 

“You’re right, that is boring,” Clara adopted a frown. “How dare he interrupt our coffee for that?” 

“I’d have sorely loved to tell him that he was interrupting a social engagement,” he tipped her a wink. “I did consider telling him I’d been having coffee with a woman half my age, but frankly, the ensuing lewd comments wouldn’t have been worth the hassle.”

“Damn,” Clara clicked her tongue. “You should’ve lied and told him it was coffee at your place. I bet his eyes would’ve popped out of his head.” 

John laughed, enjoying her sense of mischief. “He’d probably have keeled over on the spot. I might’ve got my radio station back.” 

“So, next time, tell him a gorgeous woman spent the night at yours. You can thank me by giving me a charitable donation once you’re a mega-star again, or buying me a house. Whichever.” 

“You know,” he mused, wrapping both his hands around his coffee mug as he spoke. “You remind me a lot of River.” 

 _Damn, that came out wrong. Now she’s going to think I only like her because-_  

“Really?” Clara asked, one side of her mouth turned up in a smirk. “Was she bitingly attractive with a wicked sense of humour?” 

“Oh, yes,” he said, reassured by her reply. “She enjoyed teasing people, too.” 

“By that, do you mean occasionally fabricating stories to get a rise out of people?” 

“Got it in one,” John concurred, then clarified: “I mean, you’re not… you’re both pretty different…” 

“John” Clara interjected, patiently. “I know.” 

“But-”

“I know. Believe me, I looked up your wife, and there’s no way I have that kind of work ethic. I _aspire_ to that kind of work ethic, damn.” 

“Don’t aspire too hard,” John warned, grimacing at the memory. “It can get a bit… consuming, especially if you’re not careful.”

“What do you mean?” 

“She was just…” he sighed, knowing he’d have to explain but still finding himself loathe to open that particular can of worms. “She worked a lot, and I do mean a lot – we’re talking fifty-to-sixty-hour weeks. It got to a point where we used to fight about it – I know I made us sound like everything was perfect, but… truth be told, there were a lot of arguments.” 

“Every couple fights,” Clara told him pragmatically, sipping her drink before adding: “Even my housemate and her boyfriend, who are genuinely and sickeningly in love, and have been since they were like… four.”

“Really? What do they fight about?” 

“Stupid shit,” Clara shrugged. “Whose turn it is to wash up. Hogging the shower. Date ideas. You know, that kind of thing.” 

“And you and Danny…” 

“Oh, we fought, and then he’d come over all hangdog and sad, and I’d end up feeling terrible and apologising, even when I wasn’t in the wrong,” she sighed. “It was a nightmare. Especially if we had to go to work before we made up. That was less than enjoyable.”

“I can imagine that was awkward for your colleagues,” John made a face. “And students.”

“A little, yeah,” she smiled sadly. “We managed to be professional, I think. It never impacted the kids.”

“That’s good,” he returned her smile, then finished the remains of the slice of cake. “See, River was, ah… volatile.” 

“In what sense?” 

“She once threw a trowel at me,” he chuckled at the memory, remembering how awful it had seemed at the time, and how now it had become a fond memory. “Well, more than once, actually. I got quite good at ducking objects. She did it a few times at work – hers, not mine – and had to try and explain who she’d been screaming at once I’d done a bunk and snuck out the building with my tail tucked between my legs.” 

“The ghost?” 

“Oh, definitely the ghost,” John told her, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I hope you and Danny didn’t get to throwing books around.”

Clara looked aghast at the very suggestion. “Throwing books? What an awful thought. Never.” 

“One of those people, huh?” 

“God, yeah,” she ran her finger around the rim of her coffee mug, then licked at the accrued foam. “Mum caught me scribbling in a book when I was six and went fully nuclear, gave me the whole spiel about treating books with respect and never, ever writing in them. As you can imagine, the university library proved to be a stressful place. The kids I looked after… even more so. Still, I had them fully trained in under a month, so I proved to be the winner on that front.”

“What kids?” 

“Oh,” she blinked at him. “I was a nanny for a bit. After university. I wanted to travel, but, well… I was crashing at theirs before my flight, and the mum died.” 

“Bloody hell.”

“Yeah – it was just… out of nowhere. She had a blood clot on the brain. And I couldn’t leave her kids, you know – they were just like me. Tiny and scared and motherless and grieving. So, I stayed. Bailed on all my travel plans, and put things right.” 

“For how long?” 

Clara mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _three years._  

“Sorry?” 

“Three years, OK? Then I realised that the dad was starting to see me as a wife substitute, and his daughter was turning into a mouthy teenager, and I knew I had to get out of there before things got creepy or boiled over.”

“And instead, you trained to teach and took on whole classes of mouthy teenagers. Good choice.”

“Well,” she grinned. “More fool me.” 

“Hey, it’s good that you finally got to follow your dreams,” John told her, feeling an odd sense of pride. “Miss Oswald.” 

“Mr Smith,” Clara raised her empty mug to him in a mock toast. “Which reminds me, by the way, I need to make a request of you.” 

“Oh, no,” he held up one hand, feeling a swooping sense of apprehension as he did so. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.” 

“Even if it’s eloping?”

“Even then,” he scowled for posterity. “Especially then.” 

“Rude,” she pouted. “Look, it’s not even really about me, it’s about school. About the kids.”

“The last time I came near your school, you punched me in the stomach and nearly got hit by a car.” 

“You weren’t invited then!” 

“Adrian invited me.” 

“Well, yeah, but Adrian’s an idiot so he doesn’t count.” 

“Clara, stop stalling. What’s the request?” 

“We’re having a careers day in a couple of weeks. People from different companies are coming in to talk to the kids about jobs – accountants, doctors, boring stuff like that. But the creative types… well, they don’t have anyone, because no one is getting back to us. So, I was wondering if you’d maybe like to do the honours?” 

“I’m a washed-up former alcoholic who works a late-night slot, playing music that’s older than most of your students.” 

“John.” 

“I’m an absolute has-been, and they’d all think I was deeply tragic. Not to mention they would definitely ask if I’m shagging you.” 

“ _John_.” 

“What?”

“Please,” she asked, her eyes wide and her lips parting slightly as she looked at him pleadingly. “These kids are so passionate, but they just… they need some guidance, and I can’t think of anyone who loves what they do as much as you do. It doesn’t have to be _I Have a Dream,_ it just has to guide them in the right direction. _Please_.” 

“Fine,” he growled after a moment, against his better judgement. “ _Fine_. But I maintain the right to field awkward questions over to you. They’re _your_ students.” 

“Fine,” she mimicked, before posing as artistically as she could on her chair. “I’ll be your muse, then.” 

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Oh, I try.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a visit to Coal Hill, and some of Clara's students are all too keen to quiz him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most tremendous of thanks to [Aimee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey) for letting me mention her OC, Kalei Jacobs, in this fic. Kalei's story can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8745211/chapters/20048230).
> 
> Cameos from the _Class_ kids, because it needed to happen.

Clara checked her watch for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, and prayed again that John wouldn’t be late. She’d had a difficult enough time convincing the headmaster that this was a good idea – particularly given John’s ostentatious attempts at locating Clara only weeks previously, not to mention the scene he had caused when he did – and, on top of that, she was dealing with one extremely displeased flatmate, who was growing increasingly, yet unnecessarily, wary of John’s intentions towards Clara. 

 _“He’s fine,” Clara had assured Amy that morning, slamming her clean mug down on the draining board a little harder than she intended. “He’s just being nice.”_

_“He’s a man, Clara,” Amy had rolled her eyes so hard that Clara was surprised they didn’t pop out. “You’ve been for coffee a few times, and now he’s doing you a favour. What do you think he’s going to want in return?”_

_“More coffee,” Clara had deadpanned, watching with relish as Amy face-palmed and then winced. “Obviously.”_

_“You’re an idiot.”_

_“You’re paranoid,” she told her ginger companion, scowling at her reflection in the kitchen window as she scrubbed the remains of her porridge off a bowl. “He’s widowed, and he’s old enough to be my dad.”_

_“Exactly,” Amy had pointed out from her perch on a worktop. “He’s obviously a cradle-snatcher.”_

_“Amy, you’re being ridiculous,” Clara had told her as bluntly as possible, unsure how to make her convictions any clearer. “I’m not going to shag him. He is a tentative friend, OK? He will keep his hands and mouth and penis exactly where I can see them at all times_ _, and if he tries anything weird, I will scream like I’m being murdered. Remember, it’s a school, for god’s sake. He’s not going to do anything overtly sexual, is he?”_

_“What if he tries to seduce you in a broom cupboard?”_

_“My boyfriend just died!” Clara had exclaimed, throwing her soapy hands in the air in frustration and reaching for a tea towel. “I am not up for being seduced! Sex is a very long way down my priority list, so kindly stop being such a bitch about me having a friend that isn’t you!”_

_With that, she’d grabbed her bag and stormed out of the flat, slamming the front door behind her._

She winced at the recollection, pondering whether she had time to text Amy and apologise as she loitered in the reception area in what she hoped was a fairly innocuous way. 

“Clara?” Sylvia asked from behind the reception desk, microseconds later. “Why are you hanging around looking guiltier than a Year Eleven who’s been caught with weed?” 

“I’m not,” she said at once, insulted by the notion. “I’m waiting for someone?” 

“Who?” Sylvia asked in a catty tone. “The police?” 

“Very funny. No, my guest for Careers Day. John Smith.” 

“Not that bloody insane radio DJ who was all-out stalking you a few weeks back?! He’s dangerous, Clara.” 

“He wasn’t stalking me. He’s very nice.” 

Sylvia gave her the kind of look that clearly meant _you’re insane._  

“He _is_ ,” she snapped in irritation, looking up as the main doors opened and John strode in, garbed in a pair of dark jeans, beat-up Doc Martens, and a black velvet coat that seemed hopelessly antiquated, the entire outfit complemented with a black bag that seemed old enough to have feasibly pre-dated Clara. He took off his sunglasses and stuck them through a buttonhole, before beaming at Clara warmly. “Hi, John,” she said brightly, ignoring Sylvia’s disapproving look. “Nice to see you.” 

“Hey,” he replied, hovering uncertainly, and she knew he was weighing up whether to hug her or not. Instead he rocked back on his heels, opting for: “Windy out.” 

“God, I know,” Clara said awkwardly, noting the receptionist’s increasingly antagonistic expression and deciding to direct him to somewhere quieter before they could arouse any more suspicion or ill will. “Shall we go and grab a coffee in the staff room?” 

“Sure,” John acquiesced, falling into step beside Clara as she set off down the corridors, and as soon as they were out of sight of Reception, she groaned. “God, sorry about her. She reads _The Sun,_ and she’s convinced you’re an axe-murderer.” 

“I _am_ an axe-murderer,” he said seriously. “Keep up.” 

“Behave,” she chided, trying not to laugh. “That won’t help.” 

“No, but it’s funny,” he shrugged, following Clara into the mercifully empty staffroom and looking around at the cluttered, untidy space. “This is nice.” 

“It’s boring,” she grimaced, suddenly embarrassed by the mismatched chairs. “But it serves a purpose.” 

“I mean, it’s not got Adrian in, so that’s a plus,” John observed, mischievously. “Poor guy.”

“I’ve tried apologising!” Clara protested, heading over to the tiny kettle and switching it on. “But he’s all twitchy around me, and he won’t even stay in the same room for long enough to me to get an apology out. It’s a nightmare at staff meetings.”

“You’re clearly terrifying,” John told her with a smirk. “Small, but terrifying.” 

“Just because you’re a lanky beanpole,” she muttered, spooning instant coffee into two dubiously clean mugs. “No fair.”

“Perfectly fair,” he said with ease, sinking into a nearby armchair and rifling through his bag. “Right, I made notes, and-” 

“You did?” she said, in considerable surprise, then realised that her stupefaction could probably be interpreted as offensive. “That’s… wow.”

“What, you’re surprised I’m taking this seriously?” he asked, looking wounded. “They’re kids, yeah, but they need a good role model.” 

“You’re…” she shook her head, unsure of the right adjective to use. 

“What?”

“Kind,” she settled upon after a moment, turning away from him to hide the colour rising in her cheeks and instead busying herself with making coffee. “That’s all.” 

“ _Hmph_ ,” John complained, and Clara could hear his papers shuffling and him quietly muttering to himself as she groped around in the fridge for in-date milk, adding it to the mugs and feeling a sense of relief when nothing curdled. “By the way, if that’s Nescafe, I’ll take five sugars.” 

“You will not.” 

“I will, or I won’t drink it.” 

“Your teeth will fall out.” 

“They haven’t yet.” 

“Idiot,” she muttered, heaping sugar into his mug nonetheless, then carrying both cups over to where he was perched. “Thanks again for doing this.”

“You’re welcome, really.” 

“John-” 

“Clara, don’t get all fawning on me. It’ll throw my groove out.” 

“Dear god, please never say that again.” 

“What? _Groove_?” he asked, reaching for his mug and taking a sip. Clara suspected he was using the hot beverage as a shield, and her eyes narrowed. “ _Grooooooooove_.” 

“I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“Fine, I don’t,” she acquiesced, sipping her own drink, before reaching past John and snagging a worn copy of _King Lear_ from a side table. “If you’re going to prep, then I’ll be-” 

“At the great stage of fools?” 

“Nice reference, idiot. Shut up and rehearse.” 

“Yes, boss.”

 

* * *

 

As the applause died down in the wake of John’s presentation, Clara approached the lectern he was poised at, beaming with pride. “That was great,” she murmured, and he returned her smile as she added more loudly: “Any questions, Year Twelve?”

Several hands shot up in the air, and Clara looked to John, indicating he should choose which to answer first. He pointed to a girl in the front row, who sat up straighter in her chair and broke into a pleased smile. “Hi, so, I’m April, and I’m really interested in music, but the school – sorry, miss, it’s nothing personal – and my mum are all convinced I should get a normal degree in something academic instead of focusing on music as my main area of study. What do you think would be best?”

“I know it’s not going to be what you want to hear, but I’m with them,” John said with an apologetic shrug. “Music is important – it was to me, as well, when I was your age – but you need to make sure you’ve got a solid contingency plan should things not go your way. I started art school, but got bored halfway through, and when my career hit an, ah… obstacle, I was in trouble because I didn’t have any real qualifications – didn’t think school was for me, all of those clichés. It caused me some really nasty problems, and, alright, it worked out well for me, but it might not for everyone. So, if you really want to do music… maybe study it with something else, or get involved in societies that could help. What do you play?” 

“Fiddle.” 

John looked surprised. “Do you play folk music?” 

“Yep.”

“Wow. Well, find a university with good societies, or start your own. But that degree is important, lass, so don’t waste your opportunities. Finish school, at least. That’s important.” 

“Thanks!”

“Ah, you,” John said, pointing to a lad near the back. “Fire away.”

The youngster stood up, and looked around nervously at his peers. “My name is Matteusz and my question is: do you think that there is a lot of space for different people with different lives in the industry? I would like to present shows for children, but I think maybe I might have a problem.” 

“Matteusz,” John said, nailing the pronunciation, much to Clara’s surprise. “Polish?” 

“Yes,” he said shyly. “But my problem is not that – English people seem used to us now, more or less. My problem is that I have boyfriend, and am concerned that parents may not like that.”

“Well, I mean… is your boyfriend a criminal?” 

“No!” Matteusz looked horrified at the very notion.

“Is he using drugs, or drinking excessively?” 

“No, of course not! He is good person!”

“Well then,” John said with a gentle smile. “Parents wouldn’t have a cause to complain. While your relationship shouldn’t be a focus of your work, it’ll come up sometimes, and I don’t see anything wrong with discussing a normal, healthy relationship between two consenting adults.”

“Gay,” someone at the back muttered, then caught Clara’s eye and flushed almightily as she scowled at them. “I mean…” 

“Yeah, it is gay,” John said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “That’s the right word, well done. It’s not a bad thing. I’ve seen the music industry change a lot – Freddie Mercury and Elton John paved the way for gay musicians who’ve followed in their footsteps – and the media industry more widely is changing. If you’d seen gay relationships presented to you when you were younger, I doubt you’d think it was funny to make ‘gay’ comments today.” 

“Does anyone else in here want to mock people’s sexuality using immature language?” Clara asked in a friendly tone, looking around at her students with an icy glare. “Because if they do, I will be sitting them down with myself and Miss Jacobs, and reminding them about basic respect.”  

Someone mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _The Bisexual Brigade,_ which Clara chose to ignore.

“Good. John.”                                                             

“Anyway,” he continued, shooting her a grateful look. “Matteusz, if you want to do that, you do that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If networks have a problem with it, they’re not worth your time. If networks won’t defend you against complaints, they’re not worth your time.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Matteusz said sincerely, sitting back down. 

“You,” John said, pointing to Courtney Woods, and Clara’s heart sank. “What’s your question?” 

Courtney got to her feet with a smirk, and looked between Clara and John with glee. “So,” she began, looking around at her peers as she basked in the attention afforded to her. “My question is; you were stalking Miss Oswald, but now she’s really nice to you, so when’s the wedding?” 

A tense silence descended over the classroom as the students collectively held their breath. 

“I was not stalking anyone,” John told the girl in a measured tone. “I was concerned for her welfare after her boyfriend passed away. She’s a friend of mine. That’s all.” 

“A friend with benefits?” 

“If by that you mean coffee, then yes. If you mean anything more salubrious, then no.” 

“Have you had sex though?”

Before Clara had a chance to put a stop to Courtney’s line of questioning, April swivelled in her seat and scowled at her classmate. “You’ve always been really interested in Miss Oswald’s sex life, Courtney – even when she was with Mr Pink. Anyone would think _you_ fancied her.” 

Courtney turned a violent shade of red before sinking back into her seat, muttering sourly under her breath, as the session erupted into chaos and Clara fought back a laugh. “April,” she said in the most chiding tone she could manage, pausing as the bell rang. “Stay behind, please. Courtney, see me after school. If there are no further questions, the rest of you may go.” 

In a flurry of noise, the students dispersed save for April, who was looking increasingly tearful with each passing second. When the classroom was empty except for Clara, April, and John, who tactfully busied himself with his notes, Clara sat down beside the girl and grinned. 

“That was bloody brilliant, thank you.” 

The teen let out a shaky laugh of relief. “I thought you were gonna be cross, miss.” 

“Nah,” Clara shrugged nonchalantly. “It was great. Thanks for getting Courtney off my back.” 

“It’s no trouble,” April paused, visibly conflicted, then leaned in and whispered: “ _Are_ you and Mr Smith… you know?” 

“No, April,” Clara assured her. “We’re not.”

“Good,” the girl looked suddenly stricken. “I mean. Not good. I don’t want you to be like a nun or anything, just I really liked Mr Pink and I miss him and it’s not been very long and-” 

“April,” Clara interjected gently. “It’s fine. I know. Now, I’m sure Ram is waiting for you, so run along.”

“Yes miss,” April squeaked, getting to her feet and grabbing her bag. “Thanks, sir.” 

“You’re welcome,” John said from his position at the lectern, offering her a tired smile. “Have a good day.” 

The girl scurried from the room with her head bowed, and John raised an eyebrow at Clara. “You’re damn good at your job, have I mentioned that?” 

“Says you, fielding questions about diversity and degrees and me.” 

“Well,” he shrugged with faux modesty. “What can I say? It’s a gift.” 

“Such humility,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s lunchtime, so do you want to go and indulge in some benefits?” 

“You mean coffee, right? Real stuff, not Nescafe?” 

“I do. There’s a little café over the road that Miss Jacobs introduced me to, and they do amazing Americanos.”

“Well, coffee sounds great, then.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John celebrate Bonfire Night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tooth-rotting fluff lies ahead. I absolutely love this chapter.

“You are suspiciously perky,” Amy said in an accusatory tone as Clara arrived home, lightly damp and red-cheeked from the autumn weather. “It’s genuinely quite terrifying.”

“Thanks,” Clara retorted drily, kicking off her shoes and shucking off her coat before plumping down on the sofa beside her flatmate and grabbing for the TV remote. “I can go back to crying for hours if you’d prefer.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Amy rolled her eyes as Clara flicked through channels. “I just meant that since you’ve started spending time with John, you’ve got more cheerful. It’s almost like-” 

“If you finish that sentence with any variant of ‘you’re shagging him’ then I will hit you with something, ideally something heavy, and ideally in the face, and your modelling career will be over.” 

“Rude,” Amy huffed, as Clara settled on _Pointless_. “I was going to say that he’s a good influence on you, actually.” 

“Sure you were.” 

“I was!” Amy protested. “Since you started hanging out with him, you smile more and cry less. It’s a definite improvement. And you’re not all weepy and despondent about lesson planning, which realistically is a nice change.” 

“I’m still quite despondent.”                                     

“Smiling and despondent is a definite improvement on loudly wailing and drinking coffee while repeatedly telling me you’re going to quit your job,” Amy noted. “So, that’s definitely a positive.” 

“Exactly. Stop whinging about my cheerfulness,” Clara poked her tongue out at her flatmate. “Is Rory coming over tonight? I need someone to stop you being all Scottish at me.” 

“He’s booked on double shifts all week,” Amy said with a shrug, although Clara knew that Amy hated not seeing him for long periods. “Except for Saturday, he got that off.” 

“I’m glad,” Clara offered her a smile. “I, ah… I won’t be here.” 

“Oh?” 

“John invited me to a fireworks party, one the station holds. He thought I might like to go and meet some of the people who helped him find me. He invited you guys – I mean obviously, I haven’t told him anything, I don’t even know if I’m going yet.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m really sorry, Amy.” 

“No, it’s OK,” her flatmate offered her a tight smile. “I’ll be fine with Rory. You need to go and have fun with your Scottish silver fox.” 

“He’s not _my_ anything, and I can very definitely cancel on him if you want me to be here.” 

“Clara, it’s fine. I’m a grown woman, I will have Rory, I will be OK.” 

“Sure?” 

“You’ve gotta go and eat hot dogs and candyfloss and enjoy bonfires, Oswald. That’s an order.”

 

* * *

 

Clara tramped up the drive of the glass-and-chrome mini-mansion she had looked up online, trying to work out whether to be impressed or horrified by the ice-white, minimalistic building before her. There was a voice inside her telling her that sounded rather like her dad, telling her that it was the embodiment of a capitalist society, but a much louder voice – one that she attributed optimistically to Reason – reminding her that capitalism was a necessary evil. And besides, this was a very nice house-

Her inner monologue was interrupted by John’s shout of greeting from the porch, and she felt herself grin as she realised he’d been waiting for her. “Hey!” she called back, taking one gloved hand out of her pocket to wave at him, before jogging the last few metres and ascending the steps up to where he was leaning on a column. “Dear god, this house is something else.” 

“Isn’t it just?” John wrinkled his nose. “Raz was never one for tasteful displays of wealth.” 

“How much is he getting paid? Jesus.” 

“A lot more than I was when I had his job,” John muttered, and Clara felt a twinge of guilt. “But never mind that. Everyone is round the back. Come on through.” 

He turned away and stepped through the front door, leading her into a hallway that somehow managed to seem both luxurious _and_ minimalistic. Clara looked around in awe as she followed John into a cream-carpeted lounge, raising her eyebrows as she took in the expensive TV and sound system, but refraining from commenting. “Were you waiting for me?” she asked, determined not to talk about the ostentatiousness of the house. “On the porch?” 

“Maybe,” he mumbled, and although she couldn’t see his face, Clara could tell he was blushing. “Didn’t want anyone else coming to the door and scaring you off or anything.”

“Are they that bad?” she teased. “Or were you scared I’d elope with them?”

“Very funny,” he shot back. “No, they’d just have teased you, and I’d prefer that to happen where I can tell them to fuck off if need be.” 

“I can tell people to fuck off, John.” 

“I know,” he shrugged, turning to face her with a guilty expression on his face. “Just…” 

“You’re being protective, I know,” she told him, smiling gratefully. “It’s OK. Now, can we head outside? This house is so tidy that it’s making me nervous.” 

“Right,” he said, sliding open a set of French doors and stepping outside onto an expansive patio that Clara suspected was larger than her flat. “Meet the best and the brightest of Radio TARDIS.” 

As the assembled throng of people fell silent and turned to look at her, Clara had the distinct feeling of being judged. “Hi,” she said nervously, as John disappeared from her side and she felt abruptly alone. “I’m Clara. The… uh, Impossible Girl.” 

“Oh, my god!” a nearby woman enthused at once, coming over and beaming. “I can’t believe he actually found you. He always has these insane schemes and ideas, and they actually worked for once. I’m Martha.” 

“Wait,” Clara’s eyes widened. “Of _Mornings with Mickey and Martha_?”

“That’s me.” 

“Holy crap, I love your show,” Clara enthused. “It’s a godsend on the morning commute – and for getting me out of bed. It’s like the best alarm clock invented, I set my watch by you guys.”

Martha laughed. “Well, that’s good to know. Mickey, come here and meet a fan.” 

“Oh god, I’m too old to be a fan,” Clara groaned at the term. “That makes me sound so uncool.” 

“Hey, as Roald Dahl said, lukewarm is no good,” Martha tipped her a wink as her husband approached, a toddler with a mass of curly black hair perched on his hip. “Mickey, this is Clara. Clara, Mickey.” 

“ _The_ Clara?” Mickey asked in awe, eyes widening as the little boy in his arms squirmed, looking up at Clara with curiosity.

“You make me sound famous,” Clara felt herself blush. “I’m really not.”

“You’re pretty famous to us,” Mickey told her. “John hasn’t got a bee in his bonnet about anything for… oh god, years.” 

“Rude,” John said, reappearing with two mugs of hot chocolate and handing one to Clara, before chucking Mickey’s little boy under the chin. “Hello, little chap.” 

“Hello,” the youngster mumbled, suddenly turning shy and hiding his face in his father’s shoulder. “Daddy.” 

Martha rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you can’t shut the kid up at home and now he’s here he won’t say a word.” 

Clara smiled. “Kids, eh? I work in a secondary school, but I think your little one is more responsive than half the teenage boys I teach.” She turned her attention to the little boy. “What’s your name?” 

“Maxie.” 

“That’s a nice name! Are you here to see the fireworks?” 

“Yes. Bang!” he said proudly, then added more loudly: “ _Big_ bang!” 

Martha ruffled his hair. “That’s more like it. Look, you two go and socialise a little more, I’m gonna get some food for this one before he starts getting whiny and hungry.” 

“Good plan,” John acquiesced, and Clara barely had time to take a gulp of her hot chocolate before he was guiding her away from the trio and towards a sullen looking couple in the corner. “I’m warning you,” he told her under his breath. “These two are… weird.” 

Clara didn’t have time to respond before the young man looked up and grinned at her with undisguised glee. “I fucking told you!” he crowed to the girl he was stood with. “Didn’t I tell you?” 

“I don’t know what you told her, but there’s a kid ten feet to your left, so watch the language, eh?” John chided. “Clara, this is Psi and Journey. Psi lives in a bat cave downstairs from my studio.” 

“Very funny, old man,” Psi rolled his eyes and stuck out a hand, which Clara shook politely. “He’s just failing at being down with the kids.” 

“Says the guy who just said ‘down with the kids’,” Clara shot back. “A lot of my students like your show.” 

“ _Eyyyyy_ ,” he grinned, and John grimaced. “Good to know.” 

“You teach, right?” Journey asked bluntly, not bothering to introduce herself or offer a pleasantry. 

“Yeah, secondary.” 

“You look like you do.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I mean, clothes wise, and just… you have that vibe, you know?” 

“Urm…” 

“You sort of seem like you could get us all eating out of the palm of your hand in under thirty seconds if you wanted.” 

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Clara decided, forcing a smile. “I think.” 

“Let’s go grab something to eat,” John suggested, and Clara shot him a grateful look. “Catch you later, guys.” 

As he steered them away, Clara linked her arm through his. “Yep, definitely weird,” she whispered. “I see your point.” 

“I thought you might,” he chuckled, taking her over to a table piled with sausages, burgers, bread rolls and snack foods. “Help yourself to anything. I think Raz is cooking chips as well, so they should appear imminently.” 

“Wicked,” Clara set down her mug, reaching for a roll and placing a burger inside it, before heaping the resulting product with cheese and dousing it liberally in ketchup. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“I’m not looking at you like anything.” 

“Sure you’re not. Eat something.”

“What are you, my mum?”

“Nope, I’m your five foot one bossy English teacher friend who thinks you’re too skinny. Eat.” 

“Yes boss,” John muttered, grabbing a handful of crisps as Clara took a bite of her burger. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“I’m impressed,” interjected an ethereal female voice, and Clara jumped, looking around and noticing an older woman draped in shawls and beads who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. “Not just anyone can bend John to their will.”

“Ohila,” John said politely. “This is Clara.” 

“Ah, our Impossible Girl,” the woman approached them and took Clara’s face in her hands, the latter shooting John a confused look. “You are too young, and too pretty, to have suffered as you have.” 

“Um,” Clara began uncertainly, pulling away. “Hi.” 

“Ohila is married to Raz,” John explained, then added: “For her sins.”

“Now, now,” Ohila looked up at him mischievously. “Behave. There’s a good boy.” 

“Boy?” Clara arched an eyebrow as John grimaced. 

“Ohila, when you’re quite done embarrassing me, could you go and see whether your husband has managed to produce decent calibre chips?” 

“Your wish is my command,” she smiled at the two of them in a manner that Clara couldn’t quite read. “You two have fun.” 

As she disappeared in the direction of the house, Clara gave John a long look. 

“What?” he asked, stuffing a handful of crisps into his mouth nonchalantly. “She’s kind of weird.” 

“’Kind of’ being a generous understatement.” 

“Oh, she smoked a lot of pot in the sixties and hasn’t been the same since. What can you do about it?” he shrugged. “She’s harmless. Mostly.” 

“Sounds like my gran,” Clara said, then realised the implications of her words. “I mean, the fairly harmless part. Not the smoking pot part. Although she might’ve, I have no idea. Maybe I should ask.” 

“You should,” John chuckled. “Always worth it for the hilarious family stories.” 

“Amy has tons,” Clara told him, eating some more of her burger before continuing. “Her parents were pretty crazy. They used to go camping without maps and just get hopelessly lost.” 

“Where _is_ Amy?” John asked, looking around and seemingly noticing for the first time that Clara was alone. “And Rory?” 

“Oh, uh…” Clara looked down. “Amy doesn’t really like Bonfire Night.”

John paused in his determined consumption of crisps and gave her a confused look. “How come? Burgers, hot dogs, candyfloss, popcorn… all the autumnal foods are officially unleashed on Bonfire Night, usually in one handy centralised place.”

“It’s the noise,” she explained, trying to sound casual. “She doesn’t like the noise.” 

“Ah,” John nodded in understanding. “Bad experience of fireworks, I’m guessing?” 

“No, ah… bad experience of loud noises.” 

“Ex-soldier?” 

“Nah, she’d've been lousy at that,” Clara laughed at the thought. “She’d complain she was getting all sunburnt and there was dust in her hair. Look, I didn’t tell you this, OK?”

“Sure.”

“It was back before I knew her. She grew up in this tiny little town called Leadworth with Rory and this girl called Mels. They were like… I don’t know, the Three Musketeers, or some cliché analogy along those lines. Mels finally got her and Rory together, so Amy always credits her with that. Anyway, being the Three Musketeers and therefore tighter than tight, they decided to all come to university in the fabulously shitty city that is London, as did I, which is where I fortuitously bumped into them some time in third year, but that was after what happened.” 

“Got it.”

“They lived in a slightly crappy area, you know, as students generally do, and anyway… they were coming home from a night out, and well, to cut a long story short, there was a case of mistaken identity, and Mels got shot.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah, it was some local gang war, the guy thought she was his rival’s girlfriend. He got locked up, I think, so that’s something… but obviously, Amy and Rory were in bits about the whole thing – and Rory was as pragmatic as he can be, bless him, went into full nurse mode, but Amy just felt she’d let her friend down, and she’s never really got over it. She had a load of counselling with the guy I go to now, but she’s still not a fan of loud bangs.” 

“I’m really sorry, Clara,” John said quietly. “I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have invited her.” 

“It’s alright,” Clara smiled as reassuringly as she was able. “She’s much better than she was, she’s just not great around this time of year. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough though, and Rory. Try not to vomit at how cute they are.” 

“I’ll do my best.”

Before Clara could say anything further, she felt someone bump into her, and then a spreading heat down her back. “Oops!” trilled a high voice from behind her. “I’m sorry, dearie.” 

“Missy!” John said angrily, grabbing Clara’s shoulder and yanking her around to see what had happened. “Hot chocolate. Dear god, you’re so mature.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” the woman said innocently, and Clara realised with a jolt who this was. John’s producer. The one who had warned her off him. The one who had openly despised her, and now, apparently, the one who had spilt hot chocolate down the back of her coat. “It was an accident. You must be Clara.” 

“I am, and it’s fine. I’m gonna go clean up,” Clara muttered, determined not to get into any petty arguments. “Back in a mo.” 

“Clara…” John began, but she ignored him and went inside, heading into the kitchen and finding it mercifully deserted. Shrugging off her coat, she inspected the damage: a large brown stain across the dark material, although as she grabbed a handful of kitchen roll and started dabbing at the sticky liquid, she was relieved to find that the majority of it hadn’t sunk into the thick fabric. 

“God _sake_ ,” she muttered under her breath as she dabbed away at the item of clothing. “Why?” 

 “Because,” came a familiar voice behind her, and she turned on her heel to take in the sight of John, leaning against a counter and holding his own jacket out to her. “She’s a deeply immature individual, but one who thinks she’s doing the right thing in trying to keep me away from you.” 

“Do you think she is? Doing the right thing?” 

“No, I think she’s being an idiot, and I also think it’s not working.” 

“I dunno, she’s pretty scary.” 

“Her bark is worse than her bite,” John said gently. “You’re my friend. She’s going to have to get used to that.”

Clara had nothing to say to that, so she looked back down at her coat and dabbed at it a final time. “Why are you holding your coat out?” she asked after a moment.

“ _Becauseeeeeee_ ,” John began, and she could tell from his tone that he was rolling his eyes. “I want you to wear it.” 

“It’ll swamp me.”

“So you can roll it up.” 

“You’ll be cold.” 

“I don’t feel the cold.”

“It’s November, you prat.” 

“Don’t care. Coat, now.” 

Clara sighed, draping her own jacket over the back of a nearby stool and shrugging on the enormous velvet coat that John handed to her. “Happy?” she asked, rolling up the sleeves until she could feasibly use her hands again. “I look like an idiot.” 

“I would personally argue that you look rather cute.” 

Clara punched him lightly in the arm, buttoning the jacket around her torso and running her thumbs over the silky lining. “Idiot.” 

“Rude,” John pouted. “Now stop whinging and come outside, the fireworks are about to start.” 

“You’ll freeze!” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Alright, but if you get hypothermia, I will laugh.” 

“Fine,” John acquiesced, stepping back outside and taking Clara over to a quiet corner of the patio. “There, one unobstructed view for my favourite tiny English teacher.” 

“It’s like you _want_ another punch in the arm.” 

“Oh, shush,” he laughed. “Come here.”

To Clara’s surprise, he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on the crown of her head as the fireworks began. Warmth radiated from him, and she smiled, watching the display in silence for a few minutes before asking snidely: “You’re cold, aren’t you?” 

“No,” John said at once, although Clara could feel him shivering. “I’m just… ensuring you aren’t.”

She twisted in his arms until she was facing him, looking up at his face and raising her eyebrows. “Liar.” 

“You’re missing the fireworks.” 

“I’m keeping you warm.” 

He leaned down to her, and for a second, Clara thought he might kiss her, her heart thundering at the prospect, but then his hands strayed to her scarf and she realised she had been foolish to expect anything more. He unwound the material with nimble fingers and then wrapped it around his own neck, before running his thumbs underneath the collar of his jacket and turning it up to protect Clara’s neck from the autumn wind. 

“Better?” she managed to ask after a few seconds, raising an eyebrow. 

“Much.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Clara's 30th birthday, but all she can think about is how she and Danny celebrated the year before. Luckily Amy and Rory have plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was fun to write and research. Every venue mentioned in this chapter is a real place, feel free to Google them. Also enjoy all the sneaky Victoria references.

Clara blotted her lipstick then smoothed her hair down for the final time, trying to work up a sense of enthusiasm for the evening ahead. Aside from work, coffee with John, and the almost-disastrous fireworks party of two weeks prior, she hadn’t left the house much recently. Only today was her thirtieth birthday and she should be celebrating, but all she felt instead was an echoing sense of loss as she cast her mind back to last year, when Danny had surprised her by whisking her off to central London and taking her up the London Eye to watch the sunset. Back on the ground, she’d still been giddy from the beauty of the golden light reflecting off the glass of the capital’s buildings when Danny had taken her by the hand and led her to what had been – by her own estimations – the most beautiful restaurant she’d ever had the pleasure of visiting: Clos Maggiore, buried deep in the heart of the city. Tucked away beside the fireplace under a canopy of flowers, they’d sipped champagne and eaten food that was well out of both of their budgets, but she found herself somehow forgetting all of that as she stared into Danny’s eyes and fell further in love with each passing minute.

And now?

Now she had no idea what the plan was. Amy was being maddeningly vague, as was Rory, although she had a sneaking suspicion that they were going to attempt something elaborate and expensive. Sighing, she stood up and brushed down her dress, hoping against hope that they weren’t going to pull out all the stops and bankrupt themselves in the process.

“Clara?” Amy knocked lightly on her bedroom door then walked in without waiting for an invitation. “You look gorgeous.” 

“Thanks,” Clara said shyly, looking down and realising it was the first time in a long while that she’d bothered making such an effort: red dress, red nails, and a matte red lipstick. “Not too matchy-matchy?” 

“God no, just right. You look a million dollars, it’s really something. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” 

“Do I detect a hint of reticence, Miss Oswald?” 

“Maybe a little,” Clara admitted, grabbing her leather jacket and slipping it on. “Just… you know. He’s not here.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, her lip wobbling as she fought to keep her composure. _Oh Jesus,_ she thought to herself with horror. _I’m going to cry, and I have too much eyeliner on for that_. 

“Oh, babe,” Amy said at once, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her flatmate. Clara felt herself relax fractionally, and she blinked hard until the tears cleared from her vision. “Hey. It’s alright. I know it’s not the same but you have me, and Rory. And we want to make sure this year is really special for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Clara mumbled, feeling horribly like a burden. “Honestly.” 

“It’s not every day that my best friend turns thirty.” 

“Ugh, don’t. I feel old.” 

“You are old, but never mind that, OK? We’re going to go out and have fun, because you deserve it.” 

“Honestly, Amy, I mean it, you don’t have to-”

“Clara, I love you, but we have to do this. And I mean that in a ‘I made a reservation for tonight well over three months ago’ kind of way, so stop complaining.” 

“Where are we _going_?!” Clara asked, feeling a sudden stab of panic that she might be underdressed. “It’s not hugely posh, is it?” 

“Nope,” Amy assured her, patting her cheek in a way that only served to make Clara more anxious. “It’s just very exclusive, and very you.”

“Fine,” Clara grumbled. “I think I trust you. Where’s Rory?” 

“Meeting us there. Now, there’s an Uber outside, so get your arse in gear sharpish.” 

“I’m ready!” 

“Good, so let’s go, my tiny friend.” 

Clara allowed herself to be dragged down several flights of stairs and into a suspiciously luxurious Uber, before casting a hopeful glance at the driver. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we’re going?” she asked pleadingly. 

“Sorry, miss,” he shrugged and adjusted his rear view mirror. “Sworn to secrecy.” 

Sighing, Clara did up her seatbelt and resigned herself to the mystery of the night ahead, allowing Amy to strike up an incessant chatter with the driver as she watched London slide past her window. The gothic façade of St Pancras flashed past the car, then the brightly lit exterior of Madame Tussauds, before they pulled into the gold-tinged splendour of Hyde Park and Amy fell abruptly silent. 

“We’re nearly there,” Amy told her, and Clara blinked in confusion, trying to work out where they were headed. “Don’t look so baffled.” 

“I _am_ baffled, mainly because you haven’t told me a thing.” 

“For good reason.” 

“I-” Clara fell silent as the cab drew to a halt outside a familiar building, and she looked up at it with horror. “For the love of all that is holy tell me that’s not where we’re going. Tell me you didn’t do something spectacularly insane and hire the Royal Albert Hall.” 

Amy twisted in her seat, put her hands on her shoulders and looked her dead in the eyes. “Clara, I did not hire the Royal Albert Hall, but we are going inside. Sort of.” 

“We’re not going to a concert, are we?”

“No, just this place seemed perfect for you,” Amy climbed out of the cab, helping Clara out and then smiling at the driver. “Thanks, have a nice night.” 

“You too.” 

Clara looked up at the impressive building, lit up against the dark autumn sky, and feeling a grudging sense of awe. “Wow.” 

“Yeah, wow,” Amy squinted around in the dark, eventually noticing Rory stood in the middle distance and raising a hand in greeting. “Hey!” 

“Hello, beautiful ladies,” he said with an easy smile as he jogged over to them, kissing Amy and then Clara on the cheek, and Clara realised he was wearing a smart shirt and jacket that contrasted with his usual off-duty attire of a t-shirt and jeans. “Happy birthday, Clara.” 

“Thanks, Rory,” she returned his smile gratefully, knowing he would be able to keep Amy under control. “Did you just get off work?” 

“Yep,” he grimaced at the mention of the place. “They’re cracking the whip this week, but at least they let me leave on time.” 

“See, every cloud,” Amy enthused, pressing a jubilant kiss to the corner of his mouth and leaving him slightly dazed. “Now, inside, our reservation is waiting.” She marched off before either of them could argue, leaving Clara and Rory to follow in her wake. 

“Sorry about her,” Rory mumbled, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and checking for lipstick. “She really wanted to go all out. I hope it’s not too much – if it gets a bit full on, just say the word and I’ll rein her in.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Clara said, half to reassure Rory and half to reassure herself. “Honestly.” 

“What are you two muttering about? Hmm?” Amy called over her shoulder, striding ahead of them in a pair of preposterously high heels as they circled the building. 

“Nothing,” Clara shot back. “You haven’t informed me why you thought this would be perfect for me, so do enlighten us.” 

“Well,” Amy stopped walking, turning to face Clara and adopting a serious expression. “The Royal Albert Hall was opened by Queen Victoria in 1871 to commemorate the loss of the love of her life, and inspire a new generation to be creative and jubilant in his name.” 

“…deep.” 

“Also, Queen Victoria was short and regal, kind of like you,” Amy winked. “Figured it was appropriate.” 

“Bitch.” 

“I know,” Amy grinned, turning on her heel and darting off before Clara could grab her, and instead they rounded the curve of the Hall and came to a halt outside restaurant nestled into the side of the building. “ _Ta_ - _dah_.” 

“Coda,” Clara read off the sign, then frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, _it_ has heard of _you_ , so get inside.” 

“Yes boss,” Clara acquiesced, heading into the purple-and-silver hued interior and looking around in pleasant surprise at the restrained décor. “Nice.” 

“You sound insultingly surprised. Hello, when was the last time I took you anywhere shit?” 

“June,” Clara reminded Amy. “That dive bar in Hoxton.” 

“Right, fair point,” Amy made a face, approaching the maître d’. “Table for three under Pond?”

“Right this way, madam,” the young man smiled, leading them through the restaurant to a quiet corner underneath a sparkling chandelier and holding out Amy and Clara’s chairs in a chivalrous gesture that Clara tried to appreciate. “Would you like to order drinks now, or should I permit you a moment to peruse the menu?”

“A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, please,” Amy said at once. “The Ponsardin, not the Rosé, and then three lemonades, no ice, and a carafe of water for the table.” 

“Certainly, madam.” 

Clara looked at Amy with surprise, then glanced down at her menu and inhaled a yelp of surprise. “Amy, Jesus Christ, you can’t afford this!” 

“Clara,” Amy told her measuredly, reaching over and patting her friend’s hand in a somewhat condescending manner. “I can, and I’m going to.” 

“Amy,” she hissed. “It’s £42 for _three courses_. Veuve Clicquot is… disgustingly expensive, that’s why it’s in rap songs. What the _fuck_?”

“Clara, have a little faith in me. And my bank balance.” 

“Amy, I’m not letting you _bankrupt yourself_!” 

“I’m not,” Amy told her calmly, smiling as the waiter arrived with their drinks. “I will explain in a minute. OK?” 

“Fine,” Clara muttered, trying not to look sulky as the waiter poured her a glass of champagne. “You better.”

As the young man disappeared again, leaving the trio alone with their menus, Clara resumed scowling at her flatmate, who ignored her in favour of picking up her champagne and raising it in a toast. “To Clara,” she began in a clear, confident voice. “Who has finally entered her thirties, and is determined to scowl her way to premature wrinkles.” 

“To Clara,” Rory said with an eye roll, clinking his glass against Amy’s and then Clara’s. “Although in a much nicer way than my girlfriend decided to phrase things.” 

“To me,” Clara acquiesced, raising her own glass and allowing herself to smile. “I’ll stop scowling now.” 

“Good, because there’s a part two,” Amy smirked, then added: “To my new job.” 

“Wait, what?” Clara asked, eyes widening at the news. “What new job?”

“I wrote a book,” Amy said breezily, as though it were an everyday feat. “It got accepted by a publisher last week. So, cheers to that.”

Clara clinked glasses with her friends and then sipped the chilled champagne, trying to work out where to begin with her line of questioning. “Right,” she said decisively. “Before I can even think about ordering anything, you need to tell me everything about this impending book. And let me read it.” 

“It’s a children’s book,” Amy told her with a fond smile. “About my imaginary friend as a kid. I’m using Amy Williams as a nom de plume, because if people realise who I am they’ll think I just used a ghost writer, because you know, models can’t be pretty _and_ have brains. You can read the advance copies they send me, OK?” 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you wrote a book?”

“Because you were busy grieving, and hanging out with John. It seemed much less important than that. Now, I’m paying for this with my advance, so stop whinging, stop cross-examining me, and order your damn food.”

 

* * *

 

Ninety minutes later, and Clara was reasonably sure she would never be able to move again. “Amy,” she groaned, slumping down in her seat and downing the remains of her glass of champagne. “That was really good, but can I lie here and die for a bit now? Do you think they’d mind? I’m sure you could tip them enough to let me slide under the table and groan athletically until my dress feels less tight.” 

“No can do,” Amy told her brightly. “We have other plans. Also, no abusing the advance, god.” 

“What are the other plans?” Clara asked, feeling stricken at the thought of having to get up and do things. “It’s a school night, I can’t go clubbing. Not least because the seams on this dress might pop.” 

“It’s not clubbing, we’re too old for that kind of crap. It’s a Notting Hill based surprise.” 

“As in the place or the film? Because I’m not adverse to Hugh Grant. Not. At. All.” 

“The place, you div.” 

“Right.”

“Sit tight while I pay, and try not to moan too audibly. I’d like to come back here, and I can’t if people think you’re weird.” 

Clara shot Amy a black look, but sat in obedient silence while her friend settled the bill. When that was done, the three of them got to their feet and headed north, keeping Kensington Gardens to their right as they walked in companionable silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Clara stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and huffed out a cloud of cold air, still processing the news about Amy’s book and the amazing food that they’d just eaten. 

“Would you like to live there?” Amy asked suddenly nodding towards Kensington Palace as it came into view. 

“Dunno,” Clara shrugged, the champagne clouding her thoughts, and she groped around for a coherent thought. “Seems nice, I guess? Not as huge as Buckingham Palace, which is a bonus. If I’m dying alone with cats in London, that would be a nice place to do so. I could have _loads_ of cats in a place that big.”

“Clara, you’re not dying alone with cats, not least because Queen Victoria favoured dogs, and if you’re going to die in her old home, you could at least honour her legacy,” Rory told her. “But if you insist on felines, you can die with _us_ and cats.”

“Thanks Rory,” Clara beamed at him. “That makes me feel better.”

“I mean, you’ll not be dying alone anyway. You’ll find someone.”

“There’s always John, I suppose,” Clara said before she could stop herself, immediately clamping a hand over her mouth as she realised what she’d said. “I mean. Oh god. Forget I said that. Wipe that from your memories.”

“Do you _like_ him?!” Amy asked in surprise, stopping so she could gawp at Clara without crashing into anything. “Like, in _that_ way?!” 

“Forget I said anything,” Clara begged, feeling her cheeks turning red. “I mean, no, I don’t, of course I don’t, I just meant… he’s a friend, so he’s a nice back-up plan, and Jesus wept, I hate you for buying me champagne.” 

“Rude.” 

“I’m joking,” Clara told her flatmate, determined to change the topic, linking her arm through Amy’s. “Thank you for dinner. It was amazing, and super generous. Forget I mention the Scottish stick insect. Please thanks.”

“Clara, you could do worse,” Rory observed, as they started walking again. “I mean, if you wanted.” 

“I don’t want,” she said at once, shaking her head violently and then realising that doing so was making her dizzy. “Really, really no. Ick. No. God. No.” 

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Amy teased, elbowing her in the side. “Come on, he’s nice! Mostly!”

“You’ve changed your tune.” 

“Well, he’s cheering you up, which is never a bad thing.” 

“I don’t _like_ like him, OK?” Clara said firmly. “Can we all just pretend this conversation never happened? Except the bit where I said thank you. That bit stands.” 

“Deal,” Amy grinned as they came to a halt outside a Georgian building lit up with a neon sign. “Surprise!” 

“Amy, this is a cinema.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“ _Ohhhhh_ ,” realisation dawned on Clara, more slowly than she would have liked. “It’s that fancy one, right? With all the sofas?” 

“You’re really on the ball tonight,” Rory rolled his eyes. “Yep, that’s the one.”

“What are we seeing?” Clara asked, squinting up at the display outside and blinking at the brightness of the glaringly white sign.

“ _Fantastic Beasts,_ because you are the world’s biggest nerd, and also, Potter nostalgia.”

“You guys are just…” Clara felt her eyes burn with grateful tears. “Very sweet.” 

“We try. Now come on, it’s freezing out here.” 

“Hang on,” Clara held up a hand. “I’m not going in if you two are going to sit on one of those sofas and snog the whole time.” 

“We will not be snogging,” Amy informed her tartly. “Because Rory is being relegated to one side so we can spoon.” 

“Am I?” Rory asked, thrown by this nugget of information. 

“Yes, you are,” Amy told him, planting a kiss on Clara’s cheek. “Now, let’s go lust over Eddie Redmayne.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Clara out for her birthday, and he has a very big question to ask her...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, these are all real places, and I would v much like to go to them.

John stood outside Clara’s door, eyeing his reflection in the door knocker and suddenly feeling woefully overdressed. Raising one hand to knock while juggling a bouquet of flowers in the other, he was surprised to find the door yanked open before he could do so, revealing a tall, flame-haired woman wearing a dressing gown that showed a _lot_ of leg. Swallowing, he resolved to keep his eyes on her face, and she narrowed her eyes at him as he met her gaze. 

“John Smith, I presume?” she asked imperiously, and he felt himself smile at her accent. 

“You’d be correct. Are you Amy?” 

“I am indeed.” 

John cocked his head to the side, trying to discern her accent. “Inverness?” 

“Ten points to the Glaswegian,” she said drily. “Are those flowers for Clara?” 

“No, they’re for you,” he deadpanned, and she rolled her eyes, suppressing a snort of laughter nonetheless. “Yes, they’re for Clara. Is she ready?” 

“I think she’s still putting her face on,” Amy looked him up and down with a critical eye that only served to undermine his self-esteem further. “Why are you wearing a suit?” 

“Because I’m taking Clara out.” 

“No shit,” Amy shot back. “Where, though? A funeral home?” 

John adjusted his tie self-consciously, feeling abruptly restricted by it. “Very funny. It’s a surprise.” 

“I can keep a secret.” 

“No, you can’t,” Clara noted, stepping into the hall and beaming at John, before turning pink as she noticed the flowers he was carrying. “Oh! Are those for me?” 

“They are,” he said with a smile, holding them out to her and feeling a warm glow in his chest as she accepted them and sniffed them delicately. “Happy slightly-belated birthday, Clara.”

“Thank you,” she turned her face away from him and took a few steps down the hall, beckoning with her free hand. “Come in while I put them in water.” 

“Oh, urm,” he hovered awkwardly on the threshold for a moment before stepping inside, Amy closing the door behind him. “Thanks.” 

“Amy,” Clara called over her shoulder, disappearing towards what John assumed was the kitchen. “Go and put some clothes on.” 

“I _am_ wearing clothes!” 

“Clothes that won’t give John a coronary. John, come here.” 

John and Amy exchanged looks, before Amy disappeared in search of clothes. He took the opportunity to remove his tie and tuck it into his breast pocket, before popping his collar button open and following Clara’s voice. He emerged into a small but well-kept kitchen and almost collided with Clara, who was armed with a pair of kitchen scissors and arranging the blooms he had given her in a vase with a practiced eye. 

“Sorry about Amy,” she said without looking up. “She has a tendency to forget how much leg she has. And how much mouth she has.”

“It’s fine,” he told her with a chuckle. “River once answered the door to my boss while stark naked.” 

“OK, Amy’s never cocked up that badly,” Clara acquiesced, laughing at the thought. “That’s impressive.” 

“It was. He nearly keeled over with shock,” John grinned. “It was great.” 

“Amy walked into the lounge in her underwear the first time Danny came over, because she forgot he was here,” Clara made a face, looking up at John and noticing for the first time what he was wearing. “A suit?” 

“We’re going somewhere nice.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I made an effort, isn’t it?” Clara asked with a smirk, gesticulating to her deep blue dress and low heels. He bit back the urge to make a comment about her height. 

“Did you read my mind?” John teased. “About taking you out?” 

“No, I was just hoping,” she tipped him a wink and twirled on the spot, her skirt flying out as she adopted a demure expression. “Thought if I dressed up, even if you didn’t have plans beyond coffee, you might suddenly get the urge to take me for lunch at the Ritz.” 

“You cheeky…” 

She giggled, settling on a final arrangement for the flowers and placing the vase on the windowsill, admiring them with a contented smile. “There. Perfectly pretty. Now, I’m ready to go if you are.”

“I was born ready,” he told her, then grimaced. “Just… maybe forget I said that.”

“I’ll try,” she assured him with a mischievous look in her eye, before dancing back out to the hall to grab a long, camel-coloured trench coat, shrugging it on while talking. “Missy won’t be in the vicinity, right? I don’t want this coat getting ruined.” 

“Your clothing will be quite safe,” he assured her, offering her his arm and feeling a little thrill run through him as she took it. “As will you, I promise. Now, onwards?” 

“Lead the way,” Clara acquiesced, and the two of them sauntered out the door, down the many flights of stairs, and towards the Tube station. 

“Sorry about the transport,” John said pre-emptively, realising it seemed rather cheap to expect her to get the Tube. “It’s easier than driving.” 

“John, it’s London,” she reminded him gently. “That’s sort of the point of the Tube.” 

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “My bad.” 

“You need to relax,” she told him, nudging him in the side with her elbow. “I have no idea what you have planned, but I’m sure it’ll be great. As long as it’s not illegal.” 

“Well, that’s my plan for breaking and entering foiled then,” John complained, earning himself an odd glance from a passer-by. “Damn.” 

Clara giggled as they descended the steps into the familiar stale air of the Underground. “I don’t know, could be fun. Depends where.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” John swiped his Oyster card and watched as Clara did the same. “British Museum? They must have some nice jewellery.” 

“Who said anything about jewellery?” Clara arched an eyebrow. “Steady now, Mr Smith. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” 

“Oh, well there’s always the National Gallery,” John said in a mock-serious tone, stepping onto the bustling platform and instinctively wrapping an arm around Clara’s waist to avoid losing her in the crowd. “But I don’t think you’re really appropriately dressed.” 

To his surprise, she leaned in to him, closing her eyes. “Point,” she mumbled in a much smaller voice than he was used to. “Should’ve worn my Lycra.” 

“Are you OK?” he asked with concern. “You look a bit…” 

“Crowds,” she told him quietly. “Not my thing.” 

“Ah,” he felt a twinge of guilt. “Sorry.” 

“S’ok,” she opened her eyes and looked up at him with a weary smile. “I trust you.”

John tried to ignore the way his heart sped up a fraction when she said those words, and the way that his face broke into a goofy smile. Thankfully, before his brain could make any questionable choices, a train swept into the station, and he waited until the majority of passengers had boarded before edging on with Clara. “It’s not far,” he promised. “You’ll be OK.” 

“How far’s ‘not far’?” 

“Twenty minutes, tops,” he assured her. “Promise it’ll be worth it.” 

“It better.” 

She fell silent for the remainder of the journey, pressed against John’s chest by the crush of passengers. By the time they emerged into the watery autumn sunshine at Covent Garden Station, John was beginning to grow concerned by her lack of chatter, but as soon as she’d sucked in a lungful of fresh air, she beamed at him warmly. 

“Better?” he asked, linking his arm through hers. 

“Much,” she told him, falling into step beside. “How much further is it?” 

“Not far,” he told her, then asked breezily. “How’s work going?” 

“It’s… fine,” she blinked at him, obviously surprised by the abrupt change of topic. “The kids are as stubborn as ever, but you know, otherwise fine.” 

“Now, would you say that any of the other teachers were especially despotic?” 

“What?” Clara frowned, confused. “No, why? Well, not except Miss Quill, but that’s really more of an attitude problem.” 

“Would you say that Coal Hill can be magical?” 

“John, what the hell are you talking about?” 

John grinned, stopping in the middle of the pavement and pointing across the road. “That.” 

Clara’s eyes widened as she looked over at the theatre that lay before them, reading the signage, then back to John. “ _Matilda_?” 

“For my favourite English teacher.” 

Clara squealed and flung her arms around him, before standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “You are a sweetheart,” she exclaimed him happily. “A total, total sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

As the two of them emerged into the dull autumn afternoon, John smiled down at Clara, enjoying seeing a spring in her step. “Good?” he asked in a teasing tone, as he watched her almost vibrate with excitement.

“A- _may_ -zing,” she said with a low whistle, leaning up to kiss his cheek again. “Thank you, it was very generous of you.”

“Ah, it was the least I could do for you,” he said with a modest shrug, feeling himself blush. “I’m glad you liked it. And, um… the day isn’t over yet, I thought we could grab something to eat. If you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” Clara concurred. “Where were you thinking?” 

“There’s a little place around the corner,” he gestured in a vague direction. “I’ve been before, and it’s pretty nice, if you fancy it.” 

“Sure,” she said without hesitation. “I trust your judgement, especially now.” 

“You didn’t before?” he joked, Clara keeping pace beside him. “How rude.”

“Hello, all-out media campaign to try and find me.” 

“Ah,” he grimaced at the reminder. “Yeah, OK, fair point.” 

“Thank you,” she smirked. “Although I guess that worked out fortuitously enough for me – musical tickets _and_ dinner.” 

“Precisely,” he returned her smirk tenfold. “Now, trust me, you’ll like this place. It’s very much you.” 

Clara poked her tongue out at him as they lapsed in momentary silence before coming to a halt outside an Art Deco building that bore the name _The Ivy_ in small, tasteful lettering. “Wow,” she said in an awed voice, looking over the stained-glass windows and minimalistic window-boxes. “I like it already.”

“And I haven’t even bought you dinner yet,” John said with a chuckle. “Come on, we have a reservation.” 

“We do?” Clara asked in surprise, as she followed him into the bright, Thirties-style interior. “ _Nice_.” 

“Yes, we do,” John told her, allowing them both to be lead to an intimate, teal-upholstered booth. “And more than that, I have a question for you.” 

Clara sank into the seat opposite him and removed her coat, raising her eyebrows wordlessly as John skimmed through the drinks menu at top speed. 

“I’ll have a Spring & Tonic, please – make sure your man gets that right, _no alcohol_ – and an Appletini for the lady,” he told the waiter, who nodded in silent understanding and disappeared towards the bar. Turning his attention to Clara, he chuckled. “What?” 

“Did you just order for me?”

“Yes, I did, and trust me when I say that the Appletini comes highly recommended.” 

“By River?” 

John blinked in consternation, thrown by her question. “No, actually, by work colleagues,” he forced a smile. “May I ask you my question now?” 

“Sure.” 

“Right,” he began, taking a deep breath and trying to hold his nerve. “So, this is a really mad idea, OK, but just… hear me out, please.” 

“I’m not eloping with you.” 

“Clara.” 

“Sorry,” she looked apologetic. “Carry on.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, but… would you consider maybe co-presenting a segment of the show with me?” 

“ _Your_ show?” she asked after a moment’s pause. “On Radio TARDIS?” 

“Yeah… I mean, I know it’s really late and all and you have work but we could always pre-record it, I just thought it might be fun to do a music segment together with just us discussing old music and having a laugh and such – you’ve got such good taste in music and I wanted to take advantage of that, but not in a creepy way, oh god, I sound so weird, I just… oh, hell, it’s a stupid idea, just forget I said anything.” 

The waiter arrived with their drinks, and John lapsed into awkward silence, clenching his fists under the table as he realised what a mistake he’d made in assuming Clara would want to present a segment with him. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly to the young man serving them, then looked up at John with wide, serious eyes. “John, I’d really like that.” 

John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there is,” she reached over and placed her hand over his own, squeezing it gently. “Have you discussed it with Missy?”

“No,” he admitted, pulling away from her and dropping his gaze to his drink. “I haven’t.” 

“John,” she said again, and he was surprised when she reached over and placed her hand on his cheek, forcing him to look up and meet her gaze. “I’ll do it, if she clears it.” 

“You know she’ll say no…” 

“She’s your producer,” Clara reasoned. “She has to make the best choice for the show, and if I’m not the best choice then I understand.” 

“She just doesn’t like you,” John muttered, hating the fact he had to admit it aloud. “That’s got nothing to do with the show.”

“Well, if you can pitch the segment to her and she likes it, maybe I can come in and surprise her, yeah?” she smiled at him encouragingly. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you, but what you said back at Raz’s was right; she needs to accept that I’m your friend and not just act like I’m not here.” 

“You’re remarkably wise, you know that, right?” 

“Yeah, but it’s still nice to be told,” she patted his cheek and then removed her hand, taking a sip of her drink. “That is good.” 

“Clara-” 

“Discuss it with Missy, and then we can liaise. OK? Those are my terms.” 

“But-” 

“John, it’s my belated birthday. Stop looking sour and enjoy your drink.”  

“Clara, please-” 

“John,” she said firmly. “Ask Missy. Then get back to me.”

“Fine.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy is less than enthusiastic about John's actions towards Clara, and also determinedly vocal about this fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone hoping for a proposal. Sorry for messing with your minds. ;)

“Evening,” John said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster at such a late hour. His afternoon with Clara had been wonderful, yes, but between her exuberance and his accrued anxiety of proposing his idea about the show to her, he was emotionally and physically exhausted, and not in the mood to present a radio show. Yet needs must. “I brought coffee.” 

“What have you done?” Missy asked suspiciously as he placed the takeaway cup down on her desk, her head snapping up and her gaze boring into him. “You never bring me coffee unless you’ve majorly fucked up.” 

“I’m just being nice!” 

“You’re a terrible liar,” she arched an eyebrow, but reached for her cup nonetheless, taking a long sip. “So, come on, out with it. What did you do?” 

“I took Clara out-”

“For the love of all that is good and holy in this world, tell me you haven’t murdered her and dumped her in a ditch.” 

“It’s London,” John reminded her, keeping a straight face. “There aren’t any ditches. I murdered her and dumped her on a building site, keep up.” 

“Very funny. You haven’t done anything dazzlingly stupid like propose marriage, have you? Because if you have, I’m going to tell you this: over my dead body. And also River’s.” 

“I have not proposed marriage to Clara. Other things, yes.” 

“Did you have sex with her?!” Missy’s eyes lit up at the prospect of salacious gossip, and she leant towards him with a rapt expression. “How was breaking your dry spell?” 

“I did not have sex with Clara!” John snapped, aghast at the very suggestion. “Why would you even think that?” 

“Because she’s young, pretty, nubile, and emotionally vulnerable.” 

“The latter preclude the former, you know,” John said drily, making a face of distaste. “Besides, if you like her so much, why don’t _you_?”

“Because she’s my arch rival.” 

“In what?!” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Winning your attention? Spending free time with you? Something like that, I suppose. Let’s not get into specifics.” 

“You are a deeply tragic, bitter woman.” 

“I try, John,” Missy sipped her coffee, peering at him over the lid with an unreadable expression. “Now, are you going to tell me what you’ve actually done, or just distract me by mentioning the delectable Miss Oswald to throw me off track?” 

“Well it’s _about_ her,” he said, throwing caution to the wind and explaining in a rush: “I thought maybe she could… present a segment on the show with me.” 

“Very funny, John. What actually happened?” 

“I asked her to present a segment on the show with me.” 

“Oh, not joking.”

“No, not joking,” John allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation at how unfazed Missy seemed. He had anticipated her throwing items of stationery at him. Minimum. “You seem very calm about it.”

“Do I?” Missy asked with uncharacteristic reserve, setting her coffee aside and getting to her feet in a way that instilled him with dread. He prayed that he hadn’t misread the situation. “Do I really seem very calm?” 

“…yes.” 

“Well, _I am not calm!_ ” she roared, and John flinched backwards at the volume of her explosion. Definitely misread the signs. Definitely not how he’d hoped this conversation would go – even if he’d half-expected it. “What the hell are you thinking?! Have you lost your actual mind?! She’s a schoolteacher, not a radio presenter. She’s going to kill your listener figures, you moron, like they weren’t already depleted enough from that little stunt you pulled with the press campaign!”

“I just thought-”

“What? With your dick? You thought this might be a good way to get laid?” 

“No!” 

“So, what did you think, John? Fill me in, because I’m struggling to understand your thought processes here. Was it your saviour complex again? Do you think you can save her from herself and her own demons? Because you can’t, John. She’s going to fuck up her tiny little life just like you fucked up yours, and you can’t stop that. You can’t help her, John – she’s damaged goods, and if you’re not careful she’s going to fuck up _your_ life before she fucks up her own. She’ll destroy you, and then she’ll wind up dead in a ditch, just like River.” 

John’s hand shot out before he could stop it, arcing towards her cheek of its own accord. His anger was white hot, and the sting of her accusations wounded him more than he had wanted to let on – only his body had had other ideas, intent as it was on acting without his consent. While a rational part of his brain protested his actions, his fury controlled his impulses, and he waited for the slap to land with bitter anticipation. To his disappointed relief, before his hand could come into contact with the powdered, smooth expanse of Missy’s cheek, her fingers wrapped around his wrist, and she raised her eyebrows at him in a silent accusation that somehow served to simultaneously ire him further and imbue him with a sense of shame. 

“See?” she said, with maddening calmness, smirking at him with a patronising expression that screamed _I told you so_. “She’s corrupting you. You’ve never done that before. Not while sober, anyway.”

“Fuck you,” John snarled, wrenching his hand away and clenching it into a fist at his side. “Fuck you and your irrationality.” 

“You can’t save everyone, John,” Missy told him, her tone subdued. “It’s impossible. I know you want to… but you can’t. Letting Clara co-present is a nice idea, sure, but it’ll only get her more involved with you, and she’ll drag you down with her.”

“She’s not damaged!” he protested, hating her insinuation, hating the image of Clara spiralling out of control. “You don’t even know her!” 

“Do you?” Missy asked, and he fell silent as he realised the truth of her words. “It’s been… what? Ten weeks? Do you know her at all?” 

“I know her more than you do, because you’re apparently a child who can’t even bring herself to be polite and just meet her and be civil!” 

“She’s grieving, John. Look what you did in the same situation.” 

“She’s not me. You told me that again and again and again; she isn’t me, she isn’t going to do what I did and push everyone away. She has support networks and friends and a steady, normal job, and a routine, and-” 

“So did you.” 

“ _She’s not me!”_ John shouted, Missy’s calm demeanour only serving to antagonise him further. “Jesus Christ, when did you go from being on her side and telling me that over and over to… this? To hating her? To warning me away from her?” 

“When she became an obsession, John,” Missy shrugged as she spoke, although her point should be obvious. “When she became a substitute drug.” 

“She’s not-” 

“You’ll always be an addict, you know that. Be that addiction to alcohol or coffee or weirdly small English teachers. I want to stop her from destroying you.” 

“Get out of my studio.” 

“What the hell?” she blinked at him, evidently unsure of whether he was joking. 

“I said _get out_!” 

“But the show-”

“We have Andrew. We’ll cope. _Go_.” 

“Fine,” she spat, snatching up her handbag and then as an afterthought grabbing the coffee John had bought her. “ _Fine_.” 

In a whirl of dark hair, she was gone, and John sank into her chair, his head in his hands. He’d expected opposition from her, and antagonism of the sort that Missy so specialised in. But he hadn’t expected her wild accusations and baseless hatred of Clara, or her hostility to his friendship with her, or any of the callous words she had sent his way. 

“Urm, John?” came a timid voice from the adjacent studio, and he looked up to see Andrew framed in the doorway, a stack of notes held in his shaking hands. “Shall we, urm… start preparing?” 

“Yeah,” he said wearily. “I think that would be a good idea.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning – or what approximated to a morning, by his standards – John rolled out of bed, grabbed his phone, and called Clara as he wandered onto the landing on slippered feet. 

“Hello,” he said as soon as she answered, heading downstairs to the kitchen and sticking the coffee maker on, one-handed. “It’s me, your favourite Scottish DJ.”

“Hey,” Clara said with some surprise. “Is everything OK? You don’t usually call. Had you down as a keen texter.”

“Everything’s…” he contemplated lying, then thought better of it. “I don’t really know, actually. A bit of a shitshow, if I’m honest.” 

“You spoke to Missy about me, didn’t you?” she asked in a suspicious tone, and John sighed, leaning against the worktop and running his free hand through his hair. 

“How do you _know_ that?” he whined, playing up the petulance in his tone in the hope of making Clara laugh. “What are you, psychic?” 

“No, she sent me a Facebook message last night telling me that you’re a prick and I should stay away from you.” 

“She _what_?” John yelped. “Jesus, I’m so sorry, she’s just… she’s a force of nature, fuck, I didn’t think…”

“If it’s any consolation, I think she might have been drinking and Facebooking, which is never a good combination in my book. I was particularly amused to know that you’re apparently a ‘ducking vine.’” 

“A _what_?” 

“Well, substitute some letters out. Let’s also not forget that you’re ‘a cottage o rock.’” 

“I’m assuming that means ‘Scottish prick.’” 

“That was what I interpreted it as, yeah.” 

“Sorry,” he said again, exhaling deeply and sticking a mug under the coffee machine, listening to it begin to hiss as he asked: “Did you reply?” 

“Nope, figured it was best to leave her to cool off. She didn’t seem wholly keen on the idea of me getting involved with the show, so I didn’t want to message her back and piss her off any further.” 

“Probably a good life choice.” 

“On a scale of one to ten, how opposed to the idea was she?” 

John hesitated for half a beat, taking a sip of his scalding drink to stall having to answer. “About an eight, so fairly.” 

“John, whatever you’re not telling me, spill.” 

“How the h-” 

“You’re using the tone of voice that means you’re not telling me something. Do not ask me how I know that, just tell me.” 

“She said you were damaged goods,” John confessed unwillingly, taking another fortifying sip of coffee. “And she said that I was addicted to you.”

“Are you?”

“I…” 

“John, I need you to be honest with me.”

“Well, you can't really tell if something's an addiction till you try and give it up.”

“Do you want to give me up?” 

“No,” he whispered, hating himself for the admission. “I don’t.”

“Good, so don’t,” Clara said in an overly bright tone. “Because I think I might well be addicted to my gangly Glaswegian friend, and frankly I’m not up for detoxing.” 

“But-” John was distracted by the rattling sound of his letterbox from the next room. “Hang on for one second, I think we may have a problem.” 

“What is it?” 

“I’m reasonably sure Missy just stuck something through my door.” 

“Well, is it a lit firework?” 

“Nothing has exploded yet,” he told her drily, padding towards the hall to take a look. He was mildly intrigued as to what she might have gone for. “Might be dog shit.”

“Bloody hell, she’s a right laugh, your producer.” 

“Ach, she’s just… headstrong,” John reached the front door and burst into laughter as he looked down at the mess on his doormat. 

“What?”

“She’s…” he chuckled, his feelings of ill will dissipating somewhat. “She’s posted a bunch of flowers through the letterbox.” 

“How in the name of sanity did she manage that?”

“Messily,” he crouched down and combed through the crushed blooms and assorted leaves, snagging a small purple card with a sense of irrational triumph. “There’s a note.” 

“Does it say ‘Die Clara Die,’ perchance?” 

“Doubt it,” he flipped it open and scanned the untidy scrawl. “It says, and I quote, ‘Sorry for being a bitch even though you deserved it. The answer is still a no. PS I looked her up on Facebook and I can see why she’s addictive. Just be careful. At least other drugs come with health warnings.’” 

“Bugger off, it does _not_ actually say that.”

“It does!” he protested, waving the card around before realising Clara couldn’t see him. “Look, she’s clearly gonna be pissy with me for some considerable time, regardless of what we do, so just… let’s do it anyway.” 

“‘It’ being the radio show?” 

“No, ‘it’ being sex,” he deadpanned. “Yes, the radio show.” 

“Damn,” she clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, I’ve got a busy week, but I’m sure I can pencil you into my diary for next Saturday to discuss it.” 

“Like I’m not pencilled in already.” 

“Don’t get clingy, Mr Smith,” she giggled. “Until Saturday, John.”

“Until Saturday.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John invites Clara to Radio TARDIS to record their first show, but with the two of them alone together in the relative privacy of the studio, can Clara keep her feelings in check?

“You know,” Clara observed, drily, as she followed John along the endless corridors of Radio TARDIS late one November afternoon and tried her best to look inconspicuous. “When I said, ‘Let’s meet up and discuss the radio show,’ I did not in fact mean, ‘Let’s meet up and _record_ the radio show.’” 

“To- _may_ -to, to- _mah_ -to,” John shrugged, swiping his access card and leading Clara into what, for all intents and purposes, looked like a fairly average office, were it not for the large glass window in one wall that looked into John’s studio itself. “This is where the magic happens. And, by that, I mean this is where I talk shite and play music.” 

“Missy isn’t lurking anywhere, is she?” Clara asked, feeling a sudden swoop of panic that the angry Scottish woman might jump out from underneath a desk and start berating her for daring to step on what was probably deemed to be Holy Radio Ground. 

“Not as far as I know. She’s off with Toyboy Number… oh, I don’t know, twenty-something? I lost count. If she’s doing what I think she is, she won’t be in for hours.” 

“Unpleasant mental image, but good,” Clara plonked herself down in a nearby chair, watching as John rummaged through a cupboard that appeared to be brimming with wires, black plastic devices that were older than Clara, dust, and very little else. “What are you doing?” 

“Looking for a second mic and headphone set, because generally I work alone and the studio isn’t set up for two. By the way, I wouldn’t sit there if I were you, that’s Missy’s chair.”

“Is it?” Clara asked sweetly, a wicked idea forming in her mind as John shot her a warning look. “Does she not like people touching it?”

“No, she d-” John was cut off as Clara groped under the chair for the controls, lowering the seat a good two inches and reclining the back to a semi-impractical angle. He chuckled, rolling his eyes at her actions good-naturedly. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smirk, swivelling from side to side and watching John delve further into the cupboard. “You know, you haven’t really told me what you want me to do in this segment.” 

“I’m hoping for organic spontaneity.” 

“And here I was, thinking you were a sex roster type of man.” 

There was a yelp as John let go of whatever he’d been holding and the assorted contents of the cupboard slid to the floor in an avalanche of tangled cables and grime, with one unimpressed Scottish DJ stuck underneath it. From his undignified position on the carpet, he blinked at Clara owlishly, making no attempt to move. “What does a sex roster have to do with anything?” 

“John, when was the last time you did anything spontaneous?”

“When I decided to come and see you at Coal Hill. After Adrian emailed me.”

“Right. And before that?” 

“Urm,” he went silent, leaning back against the cabinet and picking absentmindedly at the now-broken casing of a nearby Walkman that Clara was fairly certain was older than some of her students. “2008.” 

“Precisely. You’re not spontaneous, and I bet you and River had a sex roster.” 

“She contributed enough spontaneity for both of us.” 

“You mean she jumped you periodically.” 

“More or less,” John admitted, and Clara realised he was blushing. “Could you help me up?”

“Oh, right,” Clara got to her feet, picking her way through the obstacle course of fallen devices until she was stood over John, both her hands outstretched. “Come on, up you get.”

He took her offered hands and clambered to his feet, squinting down at the slope of equipment with a practiced eye and then whooping in triumph. “Just what we needed,” he crouched and plucked a microphone and headphone from the mess, handed both to Clara, and then scooped the remaining items of technology into his arms and shoved them haphazardly back into the cupboard. Clara tried her best to look disapproving. “What?” 

“That’s dangerous.”

“Well, remember, according to Missy, so are you, but you’re only five foot one and not overly terrifying, and those machines are even tinier than you are.” 

“Idiot. Also, five foot _two,_ thank you.”

“Shut up or I’ll open that cupboard and drown you in vintage tech.” 

“Ooh, I’m scared.” 

He reached over and patted her head in a teasing manner, leaving his hand there and ruffling her hair in a way that in any other situation she would have found horrifying. Nevertheless, she found herself leaning into his touch reflexively, enjoying the small moment of human contact and smiling. “Should be,” John said. “It’s that or I mess up your hair until you beg for mercy.” 

“Behave, John.” 

“Sorry teach,” he grinned and led her from the office into the studio proper, dragging Missy’s newly altered chair behind them and arranging it beside his own as he flicked on the lights. “Right. Perch there for a minute, OK? Try not to break anything, including yourself.” 

“Yes sir,” Clara poked a tongue out at him and sat obediently as he ran wires across the desk, plugging in her microphone and arranging it at a comfortable height, before placing the headphones awkwardly over her ears and grinning. “Hey!” she protested.

“You look adorable.”

“I look like a tit,” she complained, shifting the headphones until they rested more comfortably over her ears. “Better.” 

“So, how do you wanna do this?” 

“Well, as I don’t actually know what ‘this’ is, I have no idea.” 

“Right,” John looked sheepish, sinking into the chair beside her and logging onto his computer. “Basically, I thought we could discuss old music together. You know, like we do on our Saturdays, but maybe a little more guided.” 

“By which I’m assuming you mean that I actually have songs in mind, rather than just talking about students and occasionally flinging Bowie songs at you to see what you rate them out of ten.” 

“That would help, yep.” 

Clara reached into her pocket and extracted her phone, opening Spotify and scrolling through her playlists until she reached the one she had in mind. “Songs like _Vienna,_ by Ultravox?” 

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Oh, always,” she shot back, browsing a little more to get a feel for what she wanted to talk about. “Wanna start recording, and I can continue to surprise you?” 

“Someone’s eager.” 

 _Someone’s nervous, and wants to bite the bullet,_ Clara thought to herself. “Maybe.” 

Raising an eyebrow by way of response, John hit record and offered Clara a reassuring smile. “OK,” he said into the microphone, his eyes never leaving Clara’s as he spoke, and she was grateful for the non-verbal gesture of reassurance. “Tonight, we have a very special co-presenter joining me for a new segment which I’m calling _Impossible to Forget._ We’ll be reminding you all of the sounds of… well, the good old days. Now, you might’ve got a little clue from the title, but if you haven’t worked it out, then I’m here with Clara Oswald, who was my very own Impossible Girl. She called in, I found her, we bonded over our shared taste in coffee and music, and… well, things have really blossomed from there, haven’t they, Clara?” 

“That makes it sound like we’re dating, John,” she noted, tipping him a mischievous wink. “Let’s not give people the wrong idea.”

“Ach, come on,” he shot back. “They’d never believe someone as young and exciting as you would want to date an old fogey like me, it’s alright.” 

“What are we casting you as, then?” she asked, smirking. “My father figure?” 

“Well, if I am, you should be asleep,” he chuckled, the two of them slipping into their familiar banter with ease. “Not staying up and talking about music older than you are.” 

“What can I say?” she shrugged. “I’m a rebel with a cause.” 

“Your cause being…?” 

“Music. In my case, an eclectic blend of all the records my parents owned, which made for an interesting upbringing.”

“Alright, so… they were purists, your parents, keeping vinyl around the house, which is always a good sign. What would you say one of the first records you heard was? What made it memorable?” 

“I’d almost definitely say Ultravox’s _Vienna._ My mum used to put it on when I was a toddler and we would both dance around the lounge to it, being incredibly melodramatic with shawls and beads and lots of off-key singing. When I got older, it was a bit of a teenage angst song – it’s ideal breakup material, let’s be honest.” 

“See, teenagers now are deprived of really excellent breakup song material,” John sighed in faux sadness. “It’s a shame, really.” 

“I don’t know, there’s a lot of indie music that concentrates on love’s labour’s lost and all of those awful clichés. Bastille, the 1975, those sorts of groups.”

“Can you dance to them?” John asked. 

“Urm, you could try, I guess? If you put on something long and loose and wafted about a concert arena. Bastille, you just about could, but they’ve got the Coldplay curse – everything they’ve ever recorded sounds the same.” 

“Ah, one of those bands,” John grimaced. “Not my sort of thing.” 

“Not mine, either, but they’ve sold a lot of records,” Clara made a face. “I never really saw the appeal, personally. I was more about Queen when I was growing up. And maybe a healthy, but secret side interest in Fall Out Boy.”

“Clara!” 

“Oh, it was the noughties. Everyone was listening to emo music and pretending they weren’t fully embracing the subculture. Or they _were_ fully embracing the subculture, and scaring their parents.” 

“Well, young people have been rebelling against the mainstream since I was a lad, so I’m not surprised,” John said. “I got my ear pierced with a safety pin.” 

“Did you also get tetanus?” 

“Only once or twice,” he deadpanned. “It was Glasgow in the seventies; if we didn’t get lockjaw, we’d all have died of binge-drinking. We were experts in that long before the term was even invented .” 

“Couldn’t you have used straws?”

“Straws?”

“Yeah, then you could have had tetanus AND binge-drank.” 

“I would like to state for the record,” John said, biting back a laugh. “That Miss Oswald is joking, and is advocating neither binge-drinking or getting tetanus.” 

“You know, we’ve digressed from the matter here, John.” 

“I cannot help that my co-presenter is devastatingly attractive, and frankly very distracting.” 

“You’re a hopeless flirt.” 

“Oh, I know.”

“Back to the songs?” Clara reminded gently, and he smiled.

“Oh, if you insist. Back to the songs.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, because he was all kinds of a gentleman, John had insisted on going and fetching them both coffee when their recording session was finished. The proper kind, he’d assured her, not the awful kind that came from Starbucks, so she was sat in his desk chair, swivelling idly from side to side and looking up at the wall of photos that lay opposite his desk while she waited for him to return with the promised hot beverage. While she recognised some of the celebrities immortalised in grainy colour and black and white, others were totally unknown to her. She was struck by how young and happy John appeared in the images, exuding confidence and contentment in each photo as he beamed at the camera without a care in the world. _How things have changed,_ she thought to herself, sadly. _How quickly everything went sour for him._  

“Penny for your thoughts,” John teased, sidling back into the studio with two takeaway cups, and Clara jumped. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“It’s OK,” she smiled awkwardly, accepting her drink. “Thanks. Just admiring your gallery.”

“Ah,” he smiled in a knowing manner, gesturing expansively at the images. “The good old days.” 

Clara got to her feet and moved to stand beside him, squinting at some of the images in an attempt to discern the subjects.

“Sorry about the quality,” he told her, grimacing as he leaned forward to peer at one of the photos. “We hadn’t invented high definition. I needed it _then_ , I don’t need it now! Now it just means you can see all my wrinkles and crows’ feet in photos; it’s a bloody nightmare. I’d rather be immortally youthful in HD, thanks, not eternally old and decrepit.” 

“You’re not old,” she told him, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her latte. “But I feel your pain. I’d argue the worst one is terrible light. It’s universally unflattering. There’s so many photos of me and Amy on nights out or in summer where we either look like faceless blobs, or we’re basically glowing human versions of Casper the Friendly Ghost.” 

“Terrible light is the bane of all photographers,” John sighed, running his hand through his hair in a baleful manner. “It’s awful to work with, and it can ruin even the most amazing of shots. It ruined a couple of gorgeous shoots I did with River. Unexpected sun, or lack thereof.” 

“Hang on,” Clara looked up at him in surprise. “You take photos?” 

“Sometimes, when I’m feeling especially pretentious and arty. I’m not any _good_ though.”

“Well, would you take my photo? If I asked?” 

John stepped closer to her and tilted her head up gently, his hand on her chin as he turned her head left and right. Clara swallowed, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable as his thumb skimmed over her cheek and he offered her a soft smile. “Yes,” he told her quietly, the heel of his hand coming to rest against the corner of her mouth. “Yes, I would.” 

She didn’t know why she did it. It was a spur of the moment decision, one born of need and of instinctual longing and of… she didn’t know. John was handsome, and he was kind, and he made her laugh, and he made her feel things she hadn’t felt since… well, since Danny. He looked at her like she was the only thing he could see, and listened to her like her words were worth more than a hundredweight of gold, and the way he was touching her now – a caress; a gesture born of compassion and intimacy – was enough to send shivers down her spine as her eyes met his and she felt her emotions be laid bare under his gaze.

One minute his hand was on her cheek and their eyes were locked, and the next minute she was kissing him, his lips dry but soft underneath hers, capturing her attention so completely that she almost didn’t notice how he froze under her touch. He pulled away after a few seconds, and she swayed towards him, catching herself at the last moment as she noticed the look of abject confusion on his face and cursed herself to hell and back. _It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,_ she tried to tell herself, suppressing her fond thoughts from moments ago. _Because you’re lonely. Get it together, Oswald. Style this out._  

“Clara,” he said gently, removing his hand from her face, and in that instant she hated him for the pity she saw in his eyes. “Clara, sweetheart, we both know that that isn’t what you want.” 

“Yeah,” she mumbled at once, turning away from him and feeling her cheeks burn as she tried to formulate a lie. Of course he didn’t see her that way. _Stupid, stupid me, misreading the signs and flinging myself at him without a hint of self-control. He doesn’t see me as a romantic partner and he never will, because I’m young enough to be his daughter. I’ll just have to find a way to live with that._ “Just… you know. Muscle memory. Automatic reaction.” 

“Yeah,” John concurred, pressing a light kiss to her forehead, and she relaxed a modicum at the affectionate gesture. “I know.” 

“I should-” 

“Do not even think of leaving,” he told her sternly. “Because then you’ll go home and die in a pit of embarrassed misery, and that isn’t going to do anyone any good at all. Finish your coffee, we can listen to our segment and cringe at our own voices, and then I will walk you home. Possibly via a fish and chip shop.” 

“So, you’re not going to…” 

“Make a big thing of it?” John asked, his expression gentle and understanding. “Of course not. I’ve been where you are, remember? Only I kissed Missy, which was probably even worse than your experience of kissing me. Not least because she was much… bitier.” 

Clara found herself laughing at the mental image. “Wow,” she said, in as measured a tone as she could manage. “That does sound unpleasant. Thanks for not biting me.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“And thanks for being nice.” 

“Again, Clara. You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, eh? ;)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of their kiss, Clara and John try to make sense of how they feel. Luckily - or not - they both have exuberant Scottish women to discuss things with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for being so mean.

Clara padded into the lounge in her pyjamas, holding two mugs of hot chocolate and taking baby steps to avoid spilling either drink. 

“Remind me,” she said good-naturedly, setting them both down on the coffee table and then flinging herself onto the sofa beside her flatmate. Neither mug had lost any liquid, which she considered a small victory. “Why I had to make the hot chocolate, when it’s my radio debut?” 

“Hey, don’t get cocky, Oswald,” Amy warned, thwacking her lightly in the side with a pillow and eliciting a yelp of complaint. “None of this celebrity shit. It’s because my nails are wet.” 

“You _just_ hit me with a pillow, they can’t be that wet.” 

“Look, that’s neither here nor there. Maybe I’m just lazy, that’s why I made you make the drinks. Who knows? What counts is that we have hot chocolate, and we have the Internet, so we’re good to go.” Amy gestured towards her laptop, perched by the mugs of hot chocolate and open to Radio TARDIS’s livestream, which was currently playing a rock song that Clara and John had picked out on Saturday. 

“I’m nervous. Is that weird? Is it weird to be nervous about this?” Clara chewed on her lip, anxiety beginning to build in the bit of her stomach. Suddenly hot chocolate seemed like a bad idea. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re doing it live, and it’s not like you have to record it with his psycho producer staring at you, so maybe just a little bit, Oswald, yeah.” 

“Don’t even remind me of her. She’s probably going to come round later with a pitchfork and try to lynch me for existing.” 

“It’s unlikely,” Amy patted her arm comfortingly. “If she does, you’ve got me for protection.” 

“What, you and your wet nails?” Clara arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s reassuring. Incidentally, if you’ve got nail varnish on that cushion, I will kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” 

“I bet you would, darling,” Clara shot back, then poked her tongue out at her flatmate. “Alas, maybe not tonight. You’d be incapacitated by tomorrow, and Rory would definitely object.”

“What a shame,” Amy feigned a sigh of defeat, then grinned wickedly. “Well, at least I can listen to you embarrass yourself on the radio. Always a bonus.” 

“You are _such_ an arsehole.”

“You love me.”

“Do I?” Clara asked, as the track ended and John began talking. “Oh god. I’m not ready for this. Can I go to bed now?” 

“No,” Amy chided, reaching for her hot chocolate and falling expectantly silent as the segment began. “Be good.” 

Clara grimaced and grabbed her mug for the sake of something to do, taking long sips of her drink while hunching down in the sofa cushions and watching Amy listen to her and John’s back-and-forth. It had seemed natural and effortless to them when they were together – it was a normal conversation for them, nothing unusual – but she began to realise how it might sound out of context, and she could tell from the look on her flatmate’s face that she was going to be accused of flirting, and probably get hit with a pillow. 

But it wasn’t _flirting_ , surely? If John wasn’t interested in her – and he’d made that abundantly clear two days ago, after _that_ incident – then it didn’t count. They weren’t flirting, they were just talking, as friends, and laughing, and enjoying themselves while listening to good music. None of which qualified as flirting – or, at least, not as far as Clara was aware. Banter, possibly, not that Clara would dream of using the term to John, but definitely not flirting. Not that such a distinction would matter to Amy, who was shooting her increasingly incredulous looks over the top of her mug as the segment progressed and Clara continued to attempt to tune out. 

“Clara Oswald,” Amy said in surprise, as the feature came to a merciful end with the closing bars of _Ashes to Ashes._ “You godawful flirt, you.” 

“I’m not flirting with him,” Clara snapped, instantly defensive. “It’s just how we talk.” 

“That’s _flirting_ , you idiot.” 

“It’s not flirting because he doesn’t like me in that way, OK? So, shut up,” Clara realised what she’d implied, and felt her face flush. _Bollocks,_ she thought to herself. _Here comes the interrogation._ “Not that I… I mean…” 

“You _like_ him,” Amy shrugged, and Clara felt disconcerted by her lack of overdramatic reaction. “It doesn’t take a genius to work it out, Oswald; you turn a really attractive shade of red every time he texts you, and you’ve started giggling at random intervals. It’s kind of cute, actually.”

“So what if I do?” Clara raised her chin defiantly, deciding to meet the issue head on rather than deny anything. Amy had an irritating ability to read her thoughts, so lying was out of the question. “It doesn’t matter, does it, because he doesn’t like me in that way.”

“He might!” Amy argued, setting her mug down and counting off reasons on her fingers. “You’re gorgeous, and you’re funny, and you’re insanely clever. Which is borderline annoying, in a moderately endearing way. He’d be nuts not to like you. You’re a total catch.” 

“Well, he doesn’t.” 

“Why are you so sure of this? You seem weirdly s… shit, is he gay?” 

“No! I… I made a mistake on Saturday. A big one.” 

Amy’s eyes widened as realisation dawned on her. “Did that mistake include kissing?” 

“Yeah,” Clara admitted, looking away and shuffling uncomfortably, turning her empty mug around in her hands. “And he got all nice about it and told me it wasn’t really what I wanted, so I lied and said it was just… I don’t know, a grief thing, like… flinging myself at someone nice. He seemed to buy it, so we’re gonna work past it and pretend it never happened.”

“Clara, you’re a moron.” 

“What?”

“He’s being self-deprecating,” Amy rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just worried you don’t fancy him and so he _thinks_ it’s just some grief thing and that you’re flinging yourself at people indiscriminately.” 

“Amy-” 

“You need to be clearer in what you want!” 

“Amy, it’s not happening, OK? It’s a great friendship, but I don’t… I don’t think either of us are ready for that. Not after Danny. Not after his wife.” 

“Oh, babe, I know,” her flatmate said in a gentle tone, and Clara felt a swooping sense of gratitude that Amy had dropped the issue so easily. “It’s OK. I know. I just want you to be happy, that’s all, and I don’t want you to pine after him or anything like that.” 

“I know,” Clara set her mug down and nuzzled into Amy’s side. “I won’t do that. I’m happy with what we have, honest.” 

“Well then,” Amy pressed a kiss to her hair. “That’s all I need to hear. Now, wanna sleep in with me tonight? Celebrity girly sleepover, so I can sell my story to the tabloids?” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“Sleeping in with you would be nice,” Clara acquiesced with a yawn, too tired to argue. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

John finished his show and logged off his computer, taking off his headphones and hooking them over the top of the monitor. It had been strange to hear Clara’s voice without her physical presence – the quality so much clearer than the grainy crackling of phone calls – and he’d been reminded, of course, of Saturday; of Clara kissing him, and the look in her eyes when he’d told her no. She didn’t really want him, that much he was certain of – he was washed-up and ancient and almost double her age, widowed and burdened by a past she didn’t deserve to take on. She was lonely, the same way that he had been, and he’d been the first person to offer her emotional and physical intimacy in the long months since Danny’s death. It had been an automatic reaction. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, he’d thought about the kiss since then. Hell, he’d spent the whole damn Sunday thinking about it, and trying concertedly not to think of a future in which Clara held his hand and kissed him often; instead telling himself that she was vulnerable and confused and definitely not interested in a decrepit Scottish DJ with a recovering alcohol problem. He’d mostly succeeded, then gone downstairs and passed River’s photo and felt a flood of guilt that he’d thought about another woman for the first time in seven years. Thought about another woman who, by rights, could be the daughter he’d never had. He’d broken down in tears on the sofa, realised River would’ve clipped him round the ear, and tried to tell himself it was acceptable to move on. 

But not with Clara. Not ever with Clara, because she was beautiful and young and had a whole life ahead of her – a life that she deserved to spend with someone her own age, not him. He couldn’t think of her like that, and while god knows the thought killed him, spending time with her as a friend could be enough, he told himself, so it would have to be enough – to be near her once or twice a week to record their segments, and have coffee, and laugh together. Making her laugh was a singular privilege he got to enjoy, and so he could do that, _would_ do that, for as long as he was able. Missy had been right. Clara was an addiction, and, _yes_ , she should come with a health warning, but god knows he found himself not caring. Let her consume him. Let her use up whatever was left of his sorry excuse of a heart, because he had little other use for it in the time he had left.

“John?” Missy all but shouted, her face inches from his, and he jumped, shooting backwards in his chair and swearing profusely. “Where the hell did you zone out to?”

“Places,” he said evasively, trying to regain his composure. “So, what did you think? Of Clara?” 

“She’s got potential,” Missy said with a disdainful sniff, but he could tell that she was pleased. “And that’s the most you’ll get out of me. Jesus Christ, the flirting though.” 

“It’s not flirting,” John said defensively. “It’s just…” 

“Banter?” 

He glowered at his producer for the use of the term. “Riposte.”

“Sounds a whole lot like flirting to me,” she held up her hands before he could protest. “Hey, it’s not an objection. People on Twitter were lapping it up; one person said it was the most interesting you’ve been since the new millennium.”

“Not sure whether to be flattered or insulted,” John made a face. “So, they liked her?”

“Yup.” 

“ _You_ liked her?” 

“Let’s not push it. Just get her in later in the week to record a segment for Friday, so we can bookend weekends with you two dorks flirting. And stop messing with my chair.” 

“Will you be present while we’re recording?”

“No, because I don’t especially want to see you fawning all over the woman.” 

“I do not _fawn_!” he scowled. “I care.”

“You fawn. It’s sickening,” Missy caught his look, and grinned, patting him on the head in a demeaning fashion. “You know I love you. Most of the time. I’ll tolerate her, OK? That’s the best you’re getting for now.” 

“Fine.” 

“No arguments?” 

“You not two ripping chunks out of each other is a good start,” John shrugged. “So, I’ll take it, and work up to you two liking each other.” 

“Never gonna happen.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled. “You know, that’s what River said about you, once.”

“Good point, well made. She was quite something,” Missy sighed, then looked at him with an unexpectedly serious expression. “Just… go easy, OK, John? Don’t go falling in love.” 

He blinked at her dumbfounded, thrown by the topic shift. “What?” 

“Clara. I know what you’re like, and I know that she’s very pretty – she _is,_ John, don’t deny it – so just… be careful.” 

“I’m not going to fall in love with Clara,” he told her, hoping he would be proved right. “She’s my friend. She’s just my friend.” 

“I’ve seen the way you look at her when she’s not looking. And-” 

“Are you going to nag me all night, or can we both go home?” he interjected. “Because I’m exhausted, and also not a sixteen-year-old boy.” 

“John, I just want-” 

“Missy, look. She’s amazing, and I like her, but I’m old enough to be her dad, so I’m leaving well enough alone and not giving in to any goddamn temptations. If you want to keep making snide comments about that, you do that, but you can fuck off and work someplace else, OK? I’m trying to do the right thing by not taking advantage of a woman who is in the same position I was when you _slept with me_ , so maybe shut up, or I’ll make that fact known.” 

“You flung yourself at me, John, so the blame here lies with both of us. I thought we ascertained that a long time ago.” 

“I was drunk, Missy!” 

“It got it out of our systems. It was a pity fuck, and it stopped us murdering each other.” 

“Jesus Christ, you’re awful.”

Missy shrugged. “Look, that aside… you’re doing the right thing, John. For now. Just make sure you keep that sterling resolve up, for all our sakes.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Radio TARDIS Christmas party, John makes a request of Clara, but the timing couldn't be worse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [Aimee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey), who specifically requested the Rani make an appearance.

Clara climbed out of an Uber outside The Ivy, rocking back on her heels as she watched Amy unfold herself from the cramped interior of the taxi, shortly followed by Rory. “Hurry up,” she said impatiently, shuffling from foot to foot as the two of them embraced – somewhat unnecessarily, she thought – before rounding the car and joining her on the pavement. “It’s freezing, and I don’t have anyone to keep me warm.” 

“You’ll have John in a few minutes,” Amy reasoned, and Clara glared at her for the insinuation. “In a platonic sort of way. You know what he’s like, he’ll probably look at your chilled little frame and surrender his jacket. And his shirt. And his trousers-” 

“I knew we shouldn’t have let her have those two gin and tonics before we left,” Rory muttered to Clara, seizing his girlfriend by the hand and heading towards the entrance to the bar. “You’ve been here before, right?” 

“Yeah, with John,” Clara smiled at the doorman as winningly as she was able, hoping to detract attention from her tipsy flatmate. “Clara Oswald, plus two.” 

The burly, somewhat-menacing security guard looked from Clara to Amy, who was giggling profusely, then back again. “Is she pissed?” 

“No,” Clara lied quickly, shooting Amy a warning glare. “She’s just hyperactive.” 

“We won’t tolerate any-” 

“Look,” Clara said impatiently. “From here, I can see my colleague’s producer, who is five hundred percent more likely to get drunk and remove items of clothing than my friend here.” 

“Fine,” the bouncer muttered, holding open the door with an unwilling expression. “Have a nice night.” 

“Thanks,” Clara enthused as graciously as she was able, stepping into the warm interior and watching Rory and Amy’s faces as they took in the sumptuous décor and impressively well-stocked bar. Generic-sounding pop music was blasting over concealed speakers, and she had to lean in to ask them: “What do you think?” 

“Cute,” Amy decided, the freezing walk from the taxi to inside having apparently sobered her up. “Very cute. Free bar, right?” 

“Yes,” Clara narrowed her eyes, holding up a hand warningly. She knew what Amy was like. She also knew her warning would fall on deaf ears, but it was worth a try. “Don’t get legless, don’t strip, and don’t proposition anyone.” 

“I’ll keep her in check,” Rory assured her, as Amy disappeared in search of drinks. “Go and find John, I know you want to.” 

“Are you sure?” Clara felt a twinge of guilt. “I don’t want to abandon you, you’re my guests. You don’t know anyone.” 

“We’ll make friends,” Rory said with a chuckle. “By which I mean, Amy will, and she’ll introduce me to people. Besides, you’ll be around, I’m sure we’ll bump into you later on.” 

“But-”

“Clara, go! Have fun with John.” 

“Fine,” she pecked him on the cheek gratefully, then dived into the throng of people that filled the room, edging her way through them in search of John. Cursing her diminutive height as she craned her neck to try and spot him, she yelped in surprise as she felt an arm wrap around her waist, looking up to find herself at John’s side, and fighting the urge to blush. “Urm, hi.” 

“Hi,” he said, grinning, crouching slightly to speak in her ear. “You looked like you were about to get swept away, so I figured I should probably intervene.” 

“I’m not that tiny.” 

“No, you’re not. Heels?” 

“Heels,” she raised her foot as much as she was able, waggling it to show off her choice of footwear. “Makes me slightly less midgety.” 

“You at any height is good,” he assured her, and she grimaced. “Drink?” 

“Can I come with you? I don’t feel like losing you again, especially not in this lot.”

“Sure,” he acquiesced with an easy smile, his arm slipping from her waist and his hand coming to rest in hers in a manner that caused her heart to thud uncomfortably hard in her chest. “Probably a good idea.” 

“Lead the way.”

John paused for a moment, casting his gaze towards the bar where she had left Amy and Rory and then turning his attention to the back of the room. “There’s another bar out the back,” he explained perfunctorily. “It’s quieter, wanna try there?” 

“Sure,” she agreed, already feeling somewhat claustrophobic in the crush of people. “Sounds good to me.” 

John smiled and squeezed her hand, leading her through the throng and down a short corridor before emerging in smaller, quieter room. The music here was less intense and the lighting a little brighter, making for a more welcoming environment. Not to mention fractionally more intimate, and Clara began to feel unsettled. “That’s better,” he said at a normal volume. “Don’t have to shout. Wasn’t really relishing the prospect of losing my voice after half an hour.” 

Ignoring his comment, Clara followed him over to the bar and ordered a vodka and Coke, before leaning against the polished marble top, looking up at John with a suspicious expression as he ordered an orange juice. “What’s the real reason for bringing me back here?” 

“It’s… quieter…?” John stammered, gesturing around at the much smaller group of Radio TARDIS employees, ensconced in small booths around the perimeter of the room. “Wanted to talk.” 

“About?” 

“Stuff,” he said evasively, his eyes sliding past her as the bartender gave them their drinks. “Thanks.”

Clara mumbled her thanks as well, then followed John reluctantly over to a free booth, taking a seat alongside him, but keeping her distance. _Best not to tempt fate,_ she told herself. “What sort of stuff?” she asked, trying to calm her thundering heart rate and tell herself not to get her hopes up, but a part of her couldn’t resist it, and she smiled a terse smile. “Spill.”

“Well,” he said slowly, taking a sip of his juice before continuing: “It’s about work.”

Clara tried not to feel too disappointed. “Right.” 

“Our little segment has been popular, you know,” he smiled at her and scooted closer, elbowing her playfully in the ribs. “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but we’re quite the team.” 

“I’ve saved your public image,” she said, more cattily than intended. “Great.” 

“Hey,” he replied, looking wounded by her appraisal. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know,” she sighed, taking a long gulp of her drink. “Sorry. We’re a team, what about it?”

“So, people like us, and they want to hear more.” 

“John…” 

“I want you to co-present with me. The whole show.” 

“John, that’s…” Clara wasn’t aware she’d got to her feet until she realised she was looking down at him and swaying slightly on her heels. “John, that’s…”

“Clara, I’m sorry, I know this isn’t-”

She knocked back the rest of her drink and walked away before he could finish his sentence, his words ringing in her ears. Striding across the room, she clenched her hands into fists and tried to make sense of what she was feeling, and why the prospect of co-presenting made her chest feel tight. 

Of course, the prospect of spending more time with John was an issue given… well, given everything that she felt, denial be damned. Somehow, the thought of passing more hours together in his studio, together, managed to fill her with both excitement and dread. As she headed down a hallway, pushing people aside in search of a door leading outside, she tried to ascertain which emotion was the strongest, and realised it was a Herculean task. Clara’s feelings for John were too much to try to understand, let alone when spending hours in a small, claustrophobic room with him was involved, and she shivered as she felt a cold breeze from down a corridor, heading towards it in the hope of finding tranquillity away from the inebriated revellers that surrounded her. 

She loved working on John’s show, she reminded herself, as she stepped outside and into a small, enclosed courtyard, sinking onto a nearby bench and attempting to catch her breath. But, in a crashing moment of comprehension, she realised that she couldn’t give up teaching and lose her last link to Danny – she couldn’t let everything slip away from her and leave behind everything she knew for a job working a late-night radio show that would undoubtedly destroy her sleep pattern, her heart, and her life. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She couldn’t allow herself to become caught up in- 

Her train of thought was interrupted as two women stormed outside, their voices raised in an argument. 

“For the love of god, I thought you’d be happy to see me!” 

“Well, I’m not!” the other shot back, and Clara realised with horror that it was Missy. Knowing how the producer would react to finding Clara eavesdropping on her personal life – accidentally or otherwise – Clara edged back in her seat, hoping to disappear into a patch of shadow, then looked over to where they were stood, squaring up to each other and visibly spoiling for a fight. “I thought I made my feelings about you quite clear, Rani.” 

“Well, maybe you weren’t clear enough,” the unknown woman purred, taking a step closer to Missy, and Clara was surprised that the Scottish woman didn’t back away. “Maybe I need reminding.” 

Missy’s hand connected with the stranger’s cheek, and Clara flinched at the sharp crack it made, but before she had time to consider intervening, the two women were kissing aggressively, the unknown woman backing Missy against the wall and pinning her there as they fought for dominance.

“Fuck you,” Missy mumbled, breaking away for half a second and biting down on the woman’s neck. “Fuck you, Rani Ushas.” 

“Oh, I intend to,” the stranger shot back, and Clara realised that now was an opportune moment to leave, getting to her feet and fleeing back inside before she could witness anything unsavoury. Shuddering, she didn’t notice where she was going until she crashed into someone – someone who seized her by the top of her arms, and her gaze was drawn upwards to their face. _Bollocks,_ she thought to herself bitterly. _Of course it would be you_.

“Clara?” John asked, looking down at her with concern. “Are you OK?”

“John,” she said breathlessly, forcing a smile. “Urm, yeah, sorry, I just…”

“We should go outside-”

“No!” she said at once, shaking her head. “Not out there, Missy is with someone. It looked like it was about to… go somewhere.”

“Christ,” John made a face of distaste. “Didn’t know she was bringing Seb.”

“It’s not… it doesn’t matter. Sorry for running off, John, I just…” she sighed, deciding to bite the bullet. “I can’t co-present.” 

“OK,” he said measuredly, and she was surprised by his calm demeanour. “Can I ask why?” 

“I can’t…” she exhaled slowly, opting for the easiest excuse. “I can’t give up teaching.” 

“You don’t need to worry about money, Clara, we’ll pay you. Damn good salary, too.”

“It’s not…” she closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “It’s not that, it’s Coal Hill.” 

“Danny,” he said quietly, and she looked up at him in amazement, taken aback by his understanding of her. He could read her like an open book, and she adored and loathed it in equal measure. “You don’t want to lose that last link to him.” 

“Exactly.”

“So why not do both?” he asked gently, and the hope in his eyes melted her resolve. “We could record the show like we’ve been doing with our segment. It’s not conventional, but it could work.” 

“The studio is too small,” Clara protested weakly, but she could feel her opposition to the idea ebbing away with each passing second, her heart becoming increasingly drawn to the thought of spending more and more time with John. “For both of us.” 

“We can move studio, then. God knows I’ve waited long enough to get out of that dingy little place,” he chuckled, then tipped her a wink. “I’ll let you decorate.” 

She fell silent, unable to think of any further arguments against the idea. _Why_ not _do both?_ She reasoned. _Why not have the best of both worlds?_ “Are you sure?” she asked, chewing her lip, worriedly, her self-doubt kicking in. “About me? What if I’m awful? What if people hate me?”

“They won’t. I promise you they won’t. They _already_ like you.” 

“Well then,” she smiled, making her decision, consequences be damned. “I would very much like to accept your offer. Sorry about my… wobble.” 

John beamed from ear to ear, hugging her tightly. “Yessss!” he enthused, pulling back and grinning down at her, his eyes alight with optimism. “This is going to be… _incredible._ ” 

“I would certainly hope so,” Clara smirked, then realised she had overlooked something fundamental which needed to be asked. “Wait… does Missy know about this?” 

“Not yet. Speaking of which, we should tell her tonight, while she’s drunk. Might go down better.” 

“I’d dispute that, she just slapped someone.” 

“She _slapped_ him?! Poor bloke.”

“What bloke?” Clara frowned. “She’s out there with a woman.” 

“Oh, for the love of fuck…” John groaned, putting his head in his hands. “What did she look like?” 

“I think Missy called her Rani?”

“Jesus _wept._ They do this every few years.” 

“Do what?”

“Meet up and hate fuck, just usually not in public.” 

“Do I really want to know?” 

“Do you honestly not recognise Rani’s voice?” John affixed her with an odd look. “Or was she before your time? Wait, did she even say anything? Or was she… occupied?” 

“Didn’t ring any bells, nope.” 

John sighed. “Rani and Missy used to work together before Radio TARDIS, and when we started out, she got her to join us as an acoustic engineer. You know, doing the sound, the mics, that kind of thing. They’d periodically hook up for a few weeks at a time, then they’d fall out acrimoniously over, well, petty stuff, really, like making the tea… it made for one hell of a terse work environment, let me tell you. Anyway, they were in the middle of not talking to each other and Missy had invited a guest on – I think it was Mick Jones – and left him unattended, and Rani _eviscerated_ the bloke. Absolutely destroyed him. Missy came back to find her laying into him for being ‘an uncultured, untalented piece of shit,’ thought the whole thing was hilarious, and offered her a chat show.” 

“Ohhhh,” Clara said, as realisation dawned. “ _Rani Meets_?” 

“That’s the one. Only she said no, and Missy – well. Missy thought the whole idea was great, and may or may not have threatened to expose certain, _ahem_ , photographs of Rani if she didn’t do it.” 

“Why in the name of sanity do you still employ this woman? Seriously?” 

“Anyway,” John continued, ignoring Clara. “Rani played ball for a while, then resigned, jumped ship to the BBC, and now they meet up periodically for drinks and hate-fucking. Usually in private, though, so I’m not happy about this development.” 

“Lovely,” Clara grimaced. “I think I need another drink to deal with the fact that your producer is clinically deranged.” 

“Drinks I can do,” he smiled, linking arms with Clara and leading her back into the hot, deafening atmosphere of the main bar. Looking around, Clara noticed that a live band were now playing on a low stage in the corner, and she was in the middle of forming an opinion of their taste in covers when she noticed that Rory was inexplicably stood at the side of the stage, looking on the verge of a meltdown. 

Catching his eye, he grinned manically at her and offered her a double thumbs-up that she could tell was shaky, even from this distance. 

“Now,” the lead singer of the band announced, as their cover of _Last Christmas_ came to an end. “We have a very special chap with us tonight. Rory, come on up here.” 

Rory stumbled over to the microphone, his eyes focused on Clara. “Hi,” he mumbled, the crowd falling silent in anticipation of whatever was about to happen next. “Right, so, urm… I’m here tonight with my, urm, girlfriend, Amy. Amy, can you come up here, please?” 

Clara edged forwards as the penny dropped and she realised what was about to happen, letting go of John and entering the crowd. Somewhere ahead of her, she sensed people moving aside, and she watched as Amy climbed onto the stage, blinking at Rory in consternation. 

“Now, I’ve been with Amy for a really, really long time, and I think she’s probably given up hope in me doing the following, but she’s amazing, and I love her to bits, and Amelia Pond, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” 

“Not unless you get down on one knee, you prat,” Amy said, loud enough for the whole room to hear, and Rory turned a fiery shade of red, dropping to one knee and getting out a ring box. 

“Will you m-” 

“Yes, you absolute idiot.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Rory's proposal, Clara has a crushing realisation about her own future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also dedicated to [Aimee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey), as she suggested using a certain someone...
> 
> Heads up for impending neurotic Clara in 3... 2... 1...

Clara continued weaving her way through the crowd as Amy squealed, slipping the ring on without any of the mishaps they had humorously predicted when they considered this event playing out in hypothetical terms. She felt like she was moving through treacle, the sound around her muted as she stepped past people she dimly recognised, elbowing them aside in a state of shock as her body carried her forward, her brain operating on autopilot. 

They were getting married. After all the waiting and the stressing and the praying and the tears, it was finally going to happen. Amy would wear a white dress and look like a supermodel, Rory would put on a suit and attempt to comb his hair, and she would be expected to stand at the front of the bridal party, smiling, smiling, smiling, in a ludicrously overpriced dress, before copping off with the best man, or whatever else it was that one did at weddings. It had been a while, but she was fairly sure that was how the trope went. 

She didn’t feel like smiling, though, not right now. God knows she was sure that made her a bitch, and god knows she knew that she should be happy for them, but some part of her was roaring its jealousy, roaring the injustice of the matter – that she, Clara Oswald, had been robbed of that opportunity, while her best friend got to live her happily ever after. She was being irrational, she knew, and so she forced herself to smile, prayed it didn’t look too much like a grimace, and tried not to think of Danny – sweet, naïve Danny – holding her hand outside of jewellers’ shops, accompanied by her whiny insistence that they had places to be and she’d _look at rings later, OK, just stop going on about it_. She should have let him be enthusiastic. She should have damn well married him while she had the chance, and then at least she’d have felt some of the elation that Amy was undoubtedly feeling now, rather than finding herself, months before, running along a street in London towards her already-dead boyfriend, the weight of guilt on her chest too much to stand. 

The crowd parted before her and she beamed as widely as she was able, stepping forwards and looking up at Amy and Rory, framed in a halo of yellow light as they kissed on stage to the deafening roar of the assembled crowd. When they broke apart after what felt like an eternity, Amy looked down at her and ran into her arms, embracing her with a level of glee that Clara tried to emulate. “I’m getting married!” she shrieked, hugging Clara too tightly, jumping up and down as she did so. “I’m getting fucking married!” 

“Congratulations,” Clara managed, her mouth dry as she mustered as much enthusiasm as she was able. “I’m really happy for you both.” 

“You’ll be bridesmaid, of course,” Amy carried on, and Clara realised that her friend was too drunk with happiness to much care about what Clara _said,_ as long as she was present and smiling. “And John is invited. Obviously.” 

“Sounds great,” Clara said mechanically, as Rory stepped off stage and wrapped an arm around Amy’s waist, kissing her cheek with a soppy expression. She needed to get away from them both, before her smile slipped. “Congrats, both of you. I’ll… get you both a drink.” 

“Thanks,” Rory looked somewhat shell-shocked, and she couldn’t blame him. “That sounds great, actually.”

Nodding tightly, she turned and began to force her way back through the crowd, all of whom seemed intent on rushing forwards and collectively embracing the happy couple. Finally breaking free of the stifling, seething mass of humans, she shoved her way outside, past the security guard, and leant against a nearby wall, taking deep, rattling breaths to try and calm herself down. She wasn’t aware how hot it had been inside until the icy December air chilled her sweat-dampened clothes, and she shivered, both grateful for and resentful of the chill breeze. 

“Jesus,” a male voice said from somewhere to her left, and she jumped, looking around with renewed panic. “You look like hell, sweetheart.” 

“Get lost,” she told the disembodied voice. “Go on.” 

“Not gonna happen. Want a fag?” 

“Why the hell would that help, Random Faceless Voice?” 

“I’ve found it relaxes women.” 

“I’m not going to shag you,” she said, as a tall, coldly handsome man stepped out of the shadows. “So, jog on.” 

“Oswald, right? You work with John?” 

“Clara,” she corrected, as the man held out a cigarette, and she realised she recognised him. “You work with Jack.”

“Work with, fuck with, that sort of thing,” he tipped her a wink, and she rolled her eyes. “And I do mean fuck with in both senses of the term. John. John Hart. Most people favour my surname, saves getting mixed up with the big guy.” 

Taking the offered cigarette, Clara stuck it in her mouth and accepted Hart’s lighter. “Nice to meet you,” she told him, lighting up and taking a long drag, before looking at him with surprise. “Menthol?” 

“Tastes better than regular.” 

“Aren’t you quite the surprise?” Clara said. 

“Are you gonna critique my taste in cigarettes or are you gonna tell me why you look like shit?” 

“Christ,” she rolled her eyes and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” 

“Not my style.”

She inhaled again, held the smoke in her mouth for a moment, then blew a smoke ring. “My best friend just got engaged.” 

“Let me guess – you’re in love with them, and you have been for years.”

“Nope.” 

“You-” 

“Clara?” John said angrily from behind her, and she jumped, turning around to see him stood in the doorway of the bar, a furious expression on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Smoking,” she said, in a petulant tone. “What does it look like?” 

“Pack it in,” he snapped, striding over to her. “You don’t smoke.” 

“I do when I’m stressed.” 

“Why are you…” John paused, narrowing his eyes at Hart. “You. Clear off.”

“Mate, you can’t-” 

“Go back inside, or I will kick you to the kerb. I mean it.” 

Hart squared up to John, the two men locking eyes as John scowled menacingly, clenching his fists at his sides. Hart shrugged evidently deciding the situation wasn’t worth the hassle, heading back inside with a lingering glance at Clara, who took another pull of her cigarette to annoy John. 

“Put that thing down,” he said sharply, only to be met with a cloud of smoke blown in his direction. “Now.” 

“No,” she told him childishly, and before she could react, he took the cigarette from her, dropped it to the pavement, and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “Hey!” 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to act like a child?” he spat, then added in a gentler tone. “Because I’m worried about you. You looked… spaced out. Really spaced out. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d taken something.” 

“I’m not that stupid, John,” she said wearily, leaning against a nearby wall and looking down at her shoes. “I’m just… I’m probably being stupid, don’t worry about it.” 

“I’m sure you’re not,” he assured her. “What is it? Is it about Amy and Rory?” 

“Maybe,” she mumbled, her voice trembling. “Perhaps.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” she said in a small voice, sinking down the wall until she was sat on the pavement. “I don’t.” 

Looking up and meeting John’s gaze, she saw the concern laid bare in his expression and burst into hysterical, unbidden tears, only half aware of him sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Please.” 

“I just…” she sniffed, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “I just feel like I’m missing out, you know? Like everyone is settling down, and then there’s me, and that’s my fault.” 

“This isn’t your fault.” 

“If I hadn’t fought with Danny and fucked Will and then felt guilty and awful and told Danny to come over, he wouldn’t be dead, and I’d be happily married and everything would be alright.” 

“I thought you didn’t want to get married?” 

“I didn’t,” Clara shrugged, unsure how to elucidate her feelings. “I didn’t, but now I’m realising I do, and I should’ve married him. Or maybe I shouldn’t, I don’t know, I just… maybe he was the wrong person, but he was _my_ person and I never appreciated him and now he’s dead, and I’m never going to settle down.” 

“You will,” John assured her, and she felt pathetically grateful for his attempts at comforting her. “You’ll meet someone, and get married, and have lots of babies. If that’s what you want. You’re still young.” 

“I’m thirty.” 

“That’s young!” he argued. “Clara, you’re going to do so many amazing things, I promise you. I know right now the world seems against you and it’s all a mess, but it’ll all work out in the end.” 

“I just… I feel so confused,” she admitted. “I feel like a bitch because I should be happy for Amy but I’m just… I feel so conflicted and shitty and like I’m letting her down by not being happy.” 

“You’re allowed to feel like you do,” he told her. “You’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling right now. You don’t ever need to apologise for that.” 

“But-” 

“ _There_ you are.”

Clara looked up to see Amy approaching her, seemingly still fairly sober, without Rory in tow, and smiling kingly. “Hey,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes again. “Sorry about the drink, I… urm, twisted my ankle, came out here to breathe.”

“John, could you give us a minute?” Amy asked, plonking down beside Clara in an ungainly manner. “Please?”

“Sure,” he said at once, getting to his feet and dusting off his trousers. “I’ll be right inside, OK?” 

Clara nodded with a smile and he headed back into the bar, casting a final glance over his shoulder at her before the door closed behind him. 

“Sorry,” Clara said at once, before Amy could say anything. “About skipping out on you.” 

“It’s alright,” her flatmate murmured, taking her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m sorry too. So is Rory.”

“Why?!” 

“He didn’t think about… well, he didn’t consider how in-your-face the whole thing would be, because he’s an idiot when it comes to things like that,” Amy sighed. “And he feels terrible. So do I.” 

“No,” Clara said at once, feeling abruptly guilty. “No, don’t feel terrible, don’t… it’s OK, I’m fine, you don’t need to… I’ve ruined your whole night.”

“No, you haven’t. Can you listen – and not be self-deprecating – for two minutes?” 

Clara nodded, biting her lip to stop herself from attempting a sarcastic comeback. 

“He’s sorry about the proposal, and for not considering how it would make you feel. He will probably apologise in person when we go back inside, but I wanted to speak to you first and just… reassure you.”

“About what?” 

“I know you want to settle down,” Amy said gently, wrapping an arm around Clara, who tensed up for a moment and then relaxed into the embrace. “I know that. I know you’re probably feeling confused about Danny right now, and that’s OK.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes, babe. Look, just… what I want you to know tonight is that it’s OK to feel like that, and it’s OK to be sad. I don’t expect you to be jumping for joy. But I also want you to know that I’m not going to abandon you, or anything like that. Just because I’ll be Mrs Williams, it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave my best girl behind. Not for anything in this damn world.” 

“Amy…” 

“I promise you,” Amy told her, taking a ring off her middle finger, holding it up, and slipping it onto Clara’s index finger. “We stick together. That is my vow to you.” 

“Didn’t I buy you that ring?” Clara asked, unsure of what else to say, and looking down at the item of jewellery as she twisted it around her finger. She was touched by the gesture, but she wasn’t entirely sure how to express that sentiment without crying, so awkward humour would have to do. 

“Yes, you did, you hopeless woman.” 

Clara looked up at her best friend, noticing tears in her eyes and knowing that Amy understood what she was trying to say. “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward and hugging Amy as tightly as she was able. “Thank you, for being amazing.” 

“You’re welcome. Now, it’s bloody freezing, so I vote back inside for drinkies, and maybe kisses under the mistletoe. Once you’ve had gum, because I forgot your tendency to panic-smoke.” 

“Good plan,” Clara concurred as Amy got to her feet, heaving Clara up to stand beside her. “Oh, and Amy?”

“Mmm?” 

“I’m morally opposed to wearing anything pastel-coloured. For the record.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John record their first show as entirely equal co-presenters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the ongoing love!

Clara blinked at John blearily over the top of her coffee cup, barely awake despite the caffeine hit. The darkness of the studio wasn’t helping her to feel any more alert. “Why the hell did I agree to filming my first full show the day after Boxing Day?” she asked in a somewhat despairing tone. Damn the Christmas holidays for giving her enough free time to do her first show live rather than pre-recording it. Damn John for realising that. Damn her for agreeing to it in the first place. “Please remind me, because this hangover is not happy about it. Nor am I, although, at this point, I think I’m secondary to the hangover.” 

“Why did you decide to drink on Boxing Day?” John shot back, raising his eyebrows in a manner that seemed far too judgemental to Clara. “You know. Not in an accusatory way, I’m not…”

“When Amy’s parents come to visit, bearing many bottles of champagne and determined to celebrate their daughter’s engagement, it’s kind of difficult to say no to getting involved. Amy’s parents are a force of nature. It’s like a tsunami of Scottish peer pressure.” 

“Is it still peer pressure if they’re older than you?” John wondered aloud. “I’d argue it isn’t.” 

“I’d argue it is, because I’m using it as the reason I decided to do this show. Peer pressure from you.”

“I did not peer pressure you!” John said, looking affronted. “I asked nicely.”

“You’re so easy to wind up,” Clara laughed, enjoying how easy it was to tease him. “You know I’m just joking. You didn’t peer pressure me. Much.” 

John muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _you’re mean_ , but before Clara could shoot back a sarcastic response, Missy had swanned into the office with a clipboard that Clara was _fairly_ sure was just for show, a pair of glasses perched on her head, and the overall effect complemented with a deep scowl. “Why are you two all cosied up and chatting?” she asked bluntly, shooting them a dark look. “You should be getting set up by now. John, don’t let her lead you astray. I’m not having her sully your good name.”

“If anyone’s leading anyone astray, it’s John,” Clara argued, taking another sip of coffee and deciding that challenging Missy to a battle of wits seemed like a suitable use of her time. “Definitely John.”

Missy pondered the issue for a minute, then shrugged, although her face betrayed her dissatisfaction at this development. “Good point, actually.” 

“Did you just… agree with Clara?” John looked up in shock. “Dear god, I’m taking an announcement out in _The Times_.” 

“Very funny, idiot,” Missy rolled her eyes in a chagrined manner. “We may disagree on a number of matters-”

“Like my job here.” 

“And her taste in clothes.” 

“And her catty personality.” 

“And her qualifications for this role.” 

“And her general psychotic bitch vibe.” 

“…but we are, however, united in the view that you’re a total prat,” Missy said. “Occasionally. Some of the time. Quite often.” 

“What she said,” Clara tipped John a wink, standing up and stretching in an effort to wake herself up somewhat. “Come on, then, let’s go get ready in the studio.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesced wearily, as he got to his feet, and she disappeared into what was – regrettably – still the dingy old basement studio. “Missy, new studio?”

“Studio 12 is free, and you’re moving in next week.” 

“Did she say moving?” Clara asked, sticking her head around the door at the sound of the magic word and beaming widely. “Moving is good. I like the prospect of moving.” 

“Don’t get too excited, it’s a bit of a building site,” John told her, but Clara found herself too excited at the prospect of getting out of John’s dingy basement studio and into something that may or may not have windows and floor space to really care about building work. “But it’s nice.” 

“Anything is better than here,” she reminded him, gesturing around them at the confined space. “I feel like I’m underground here.” 

“You _are_ underground,” Missy observed drily. “It’s a basement.”

“I meant more along the lines of ‘living in a burrow,’ but sure, Missy, do feel free to make acerbic comments.” 

“Thank you, your permission is duly noted.” 

Clara considered shooting back a barb, then decided it wasn’t worth the hassle, and instead turned her attention back to the cramped studio. A chair for her had been wedged in beside John’s, and she sunk into it and put on her headphones, leaning over and waking up the computer monitor. 

“First live show,” John said, sidling into the room and taking a seat at her side. His voice was muffled by her headphones, so she slid them down to her neck, smiling at him nervously as she did so. “Scared?” 

“No,” she bluffed, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Not scared. Me? Scared? Never.” 

“Liar.”

“Fine,” she sighed, hating John for his ability to see through her bluster. “Yes, scared. Just a little bit.” 

“You’re gonna do fantastic,” he assured her, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “I promise.” 

“Can you two get a room?” Missy asked over the intercom, having taken a seat at her own desk, and Clara let go of John’s hand at once, blushing almightily. 

“We’ve got a room, so more fool you,” John said coolly, sticking his tongue out at his producer, and Clara wasn’t sure whether to hug him or thump him.  

“Please don’t do anything inappropriate when I’m within hearing or seeing range. There’s a good chap.”

Clara felt herself turn a darker shade of red, and she busied herself with adjusting her microphone in an attempt to dissipate her embarrassment. 

“How’s the hangover?” John asked, reaching over to still her hands, and she returned them to the desk, drumming them against the wood, impatiently. “Still making itself known?” 

“Funnily enough, it’s being cancelled out by terror at present.” 

“You don’t need to be scared,” he told her, meeting her gaze and smiling encouragingly. “Don’t think about the listeners, OK? Don’t think about Missy. Just think about me. We’re just talking. That’s all. Just talking, just like we always do.” 

“Ye-” Clara started to say, but she was interrupted by Missy. 

“Don’t forget about the listeners too much, though, dear. Don’t have sex live on air, please.”

“Missy, why do you _always_ manage to ruin the moment?” John asked with a groan, as Clara felt herself blush again, hunching down in her seat so Missy couldn’t see her and comment on the development. “It’s a skill.” 

“So is that level of redness,” Missy said, and Clara sat up straight, shooting her a glare. “Sorry, dear. You’re live in sixty seconds.” 

Both Clara and John put their headphones back on, and under the desk he took her hand, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance. “Like I said,” he murmured. “It’s just you, me, and the music. That’s all. We can do this.” 

“We can do this,” Clara repeated, more for her benefit than his, offering him a tight smile and watching the countdown on his monitor. _30… 29… 28…_ “It’s just live radio. I can do this. I can _so_ do this.”

_10… 9… 8…_

“I can’t,” she mumbled, struck by a sudden flash of panic. “I…” 

_3… 2… 1…_

“Good evening, lovely listeners, it’s John Smith here this evening bringing you the kind of music that’s either going to cure your hangovers or make them a hundred times worse. Break out the dancing shoes or the slippers and get settled in, because tonight, not only do I have the music, but I also have a fabulous new co-presenter all the way from… well, Shoreditch, but she’s born and bred in Blackpool, and she’s got one of the cutest northern accents I ever did hear. Clara, why don’t you treat the viewers to a snippet of that gorgeous accent?” 

In that instant, John was right: everything other than him fell away. Missy, the studio, the fact that thousands of people were listening to her; none of that mattered. She was talking to John, that was all she was doing – she was just having a conversation with a friend. She could do that. She could absolutely do that. 

“Well, John, that would sound pretty insulting coming from anyone other than you, but I’ll let you off for having said it in such a wonderful Glaswegian accent. Coming to you from London, England, but more Blackpool than Blackpool Rock, this is Clara Oswald, joining the show in a full-time capacity to wind John up.” 

“Hey!” 

“Aw, come on,” she tipped him a wink. “It’s nothing I don’t do anyway, and I figured I might as well make it a permanent, long-term position. Seeing as it so wonderfully easy to push your buttons.” 

“Well, speaking of buttons, Miss Oswald, we’ll be pushing a lot of them tonight to bring all you listeners your favourite tracks – and we promise that nothing released in the new millennium will be making it to your ears, don’t you worry about that. If only we could still use vinyl, but sadly this station insisted on upgrading, and now we’re using… well, I don’t know what it is, but I can make it work, and that’s what counts.”

“And failing that, I’m here to provide tech support.” 

“You couldn’t provide tech support to save your life.” 

“No, but I could to save yours.” Clara was only dimly aware of Missy rolling her eyes at them from her desk, but she found herself not caring. “Now, John, are you gonna press the button and treat listeners to the first song of the night? Or am I going to have to do that for you?” 

“You cheeky…”

 

* * *

 

Clara felt euphoric. Her first show was done, and according to Missy – who had admitted it somewhat begrudgingly – it had been a rip-roaring success, with social media engagement for the show up by nine percent. Which still meant it was at a figure a great deal lower than, say, Mickey and Martha’s show, but Clara considered it to be a small victory.

“We did it!” she enthused to John, beaming as they left the studio behind them and headed towards reception, arm in arm. “We actually did it, and I wasn’t shit, and my hangover has nearly gone!”

“Well, that’s definitely a bonus,” he chuckled, kissing her cheek quickly as they walked. “You were brilliant, Clara Oswald. As usual.”

“You’re too kind, sir.” 

“Just honest.” 

“Just trying to flatter me, more like; don’t deny it.” 

“Maybe a little,” he grinned as they arrived in the well-lit atrium of the building, and Clara noticed a familiar figure leaning against the reception desk, chatting animatedly to someone out of sight. “Isn’t that…” 

“Amy?” Clara called, and her flatmate looked up at her with an embarrassed smile. “What are you doing here?” 

“Came to congratulate you, of course,” Amy shot back, and Clara jogged over to her, noticing for the first time that her cheeks were tinged slightly pink, and that Jack was sat behind reception, smirking. “Your security guy is fit.” 

“You’re getting married, babe.” 

“I’m allowed to say he’s fit!”

“Statement of facts are always permissible, ma’am,” Jack added cheekily, and Clara rolled her eyes at his outrageous ability to flirt. “Besides, I was just saying hello.” 

“We all know how that ends,” John interjected good-naturedly, raising an eyebrow. “How’s Ianto?” 

“Occupied,” Jack winked. “Very much occupied.” 

“With?” Amy asked, not grasping – or, Clara suspected, outright ignoring – the subtext.

“Oh, a pretty little security consultant called Lisa.”

“Jack, you’re incorrigible,” John rolled his eyes, gesturing to Amy’s hand. “The lass is getting married!”

“I’m allowed to say hello!”

“Amy, not that I’m not pleased to see you, but why the hell are you here? It’s gone 1 a.m., shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, asleep?” Clara asked, before the two men could get overly invested in their bickering. 

“We’re going out celebrating.” 

“Urm,” Clara blinked uncertainly. “We are?”

“We are.” 

“But I’m tired,” Clara whined, not overly enthusiastic about the prospect of going out drinking. “And my last hangover’s only just gone.” 

“Well, we can fix that.” 

“Actually,” Clara said in desperation, looking to her colleague for support. “John and I had plans.” 

“Nothing that can’t be rearranged,” he said smoothly, with a wide, innocent smile. “You girls go and have fun.”

“I hate you,” she grumbled, scowling at him darkly and resolving to make his life hell tomorrow evening. “I really, really hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” he told her, as Amy grabbed her by the arm and began steering her out into the freezing December air. “Have fun. Make good choices!”

 

* * *

 

Clara wasn’t entirely sure, as she crawled into bed at five in the morning, what constituted a “good choice.” John had been somewhat vague in that respect. What she _was_ sure about was that Linda – bloody _Linda,_ of all people – had texted her a short, undoubtedly condescending congratulatory text about the radio show. Clara was in no doubt whatsoever that Linda hadn’t listened to the damn thing, and that the message was a formulaic, tokenistic affair designed to keep the peace. Well, bugger that.

 _Pisss off,_ she typed out, with one hand. _Your annoying nd I don’t like u._

She hit send, rolled over in bed, and fell asleep with a wide, drunk smile, satisfied in her abilities to make reasoned, adult decisions. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is coping well with juggling the different parts of her life... until someone unexpected shows up, and everything falls apart.

Clara was surprised, as time passed, how easily she fell into the routine of juggling both her jobs. After the end of the Christmas holidays, she had sat down with John and planned out a schedule. Come January, she found herself finishing lessons at Coal Hill, heading back to her flat for an exactingly timed three-hour marking session, and then taking the Tube across the city to Radio TARDIS to settle in for the evening and pre-record that night’s show. Theoretically, after these sessions in Studio 12, she was supposed to go home, but more often than not she would find herself sat with John in Missy’s office, discussing their problems until gone ten o’clock, at which point John would insist on walking her to the Tube, and she would arrive home euphoric and exhausted, sinking into bed as their show began to broadcast to listeners.

Of course, Clara had hoped that her students would prove themselves to be responsible and not stay up late listening to the radio, but as term progressed and she began to find class after class half-asleep in her lessons, she was forced to confront them and received the begrudging confession that they stayed up to listen to her and John, and that they liked the music the two of them played. She should have been cross, but the knowledge that her students enjoyed what she did was a boost to her confidence, even if the other teachers sometimes shot her dark looks over their coffees at break time, muttering to each other about a lack of commitment to the profession. Clara didn’t care. She was happy, and she was doing two things she adored – she had little time to worry about the opinions of others. Or so she told herself, as she googled her name surreptitiously at lunchtimes and found bitter, spiteful columns about her friendship with John, or unflattering photos of her dredged from long-ago social media profiles that she’d long since forgotten about. For the most part she could laugh at those, and incorporate them into planned lessons about online safety for her Year Eleven students. But sometimes the words written about her stung, and she would cope with them the only way she knew how – printing the articles out, taking them home, and ripping them to shreds with Amy over a bottle of wine, cackling about the catty journalists who considered it an occupation to comment on other people’s contributions to society, as well as the terrible adjectives they used to describe Clara. Sometimes she’d text John, and he’d tell her to ignore the damn articles, but she knew that he knew she never would, and so she was treated to frequent eye-rolls when she broached the subject during shows, with John holding little patience for the conservative press or any of its readers and refusing to hold back on the biting comments about such matters. 

Not that she minded, of course. She sat by his side and attempted to prevent her eyes from alighting on him for extended periods of time, concerned that he might see the emotion laid bare there and become withdrawn from her as he witnessed the intensity of her stare. But sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, she would watch him – the way he bit down on his lip as he thought, the way he pushed a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled and unruly – and try to list all the reasons why working with him was a bad idea. Reason the first: he made her heart race with every smile and every light touch. Reason the second: he wasn’t interested in her in “that way.” Reason the third: the papers would have a field day if he did. Reason the fourth: the issue – always there, but never discussed – of the absentees from their lives; River and Danny, whose presence loomed large over them like benevolent spectres, the weight of loss borne squarely on both Clara and John’s shoulders.

Sometimes at night, as she lay awake buzzed on the mediocre coffee Missy would deign to provide them with during the show, she would attempt to find solutions to each problem. Making her heart race was surely a sign of love and deep connection – not to mention something she had rarely felt with Danny, although the recognition of that fact made her sick to her stomach, and she tried not to entertain that thought for fear of the connotations it held. John wasn’t interested in her in that way, that much she knew, but she smirked to herself as she thought that and reminded herself – somewhat egotistically – that many men and women before him had said the same, and many of them had found themselves falling hard and fast when she set her sights on them. John had never been at the focus of one of Clara’s campaigns of seduction, but as she lay in bed she smiled and wondered what his response to such a course of action may be. Confusion? Lust? Desire? She ached to know, but restrained herself from enacting such an experiment, knowing what the results may be, yet still she would think of the _what ifs_ with a longing sense of wonder, wishing she had the courage to attempt another kiss, or more overt flirting. Because she couldn’t deny it, not to herself – the conversations they engaged in were flirting, and she felt shameless about this fact. John was an attractive, intelligent man, and she enjoyed the intellectual challenge of engaging with him at a playful, semi-romantic level, and thus the chemistry between them came to – as one more-discerning journalist observed – _sizzle._

But oh, journalists. The bane of her life. Where she had once enjoyed engaging in the stereotypical teacher pursuit of reading of _The Independent_ and _The Guardian_ , now she was left bereft of sources of news as she found herself the subject of gossip. Turning to her phone for updates, she found the BBC to be of little use, either – so influenced was she by John’s constant, cutting remarks about the organisation, she read each update from them in a sarcastic Scottish accent. In the end, was forced to resort to asking Amy about the day’s developments, finding her flatmate’s spin on events entertaining, as well as mercifully devoid of mentions of her. While Clara could fantasise – quietly, and in absolute secrecy – about the prospect of being with John, she knew what the press would think. She knew what they would accuse her of, with gleeful words and deliberately unflattering pictures. She knew what they would call John, and that was what she recoiled from each time she entertained the notion. 

Because John – kind, caring John – would be branded with the most awful of names, and she would never do that to him. Instead, she would resign herself to what he wanted, to friendship, and that would have to suffice, as the weight of Danny and River weighed upon her conscience and she was reminded – almost daily – of the magnitude of what they had both lost. John knew, of course. He knew when she was thinking about Danny, and he would touch her hand with the utmost gentleness, or smile at her just _so_ , and her aching heart would be shocked back into rhythm by him. He would be a worthy – she hesitated over the word _replacement_ – successor to Danny, but she knew that she could never how to fill the shoes of the larger-than-life River Song; a woman whose personality she had gleaned only through John’s anecdotal evidence and her own furtive googlings, as well as one clandestine, illicitly watched online talk she’d found deep in the recesses of YouTube. River had been nothing less than spectacular, and Clara knew she could never hope to compete with such a woman, not least in the arena of John’s affections. River had been highly educated, highly successful, highly beautiful and – ultimately, in death – highly tragic. Of those categories, Clara considered herself to be educated to a slightly elevated level, averagely successful, mediocre looking, and, well – the tragedy aspect she could potentially match, but she hadn’t experienced a death anywhere near so dramatic as River’s, and thus she doubted whether they were comparable in such a respect. No, she could never hope to measure up, and so she tried to cast all thoughts of the matter from her mind and concentrate on forging a friendship with John, but it pained her with each breath she drew in his presence. Each moment they spent together and yet not-together was beautiful and agonising. 

And the worst part of this exquisite torture was that Missy _knew_. Missy knew what Clara was suffering – Clara could see it in her eyes as the older woman looked at her with contempt and loathing and maybe something akin to pity, if Missy were capable of such an emotion. It was as though at once she was seeking to convey to Clara that she was not good enough, that she would _never_ be good enough, and that Missy was sorry about this. Though why such apology was necessary, Clara was slow to discern, until one evening as she looked out into Missy’s office and saw the emotions etched on the woman’s face; the same emotions that Clara knew were mirrored on her own. 

Oh, yes, because the truth of the matter was that they both loved him – they both loved him and yet knew the agony of loving him from afar, unable to compete with the ghost of his dead wife. They both ached for him and prayed for his attention, his time, and his friendship, yet they both found what he meted out to them to be unsatisfying and craved more of him; more, more, more, until they had consumed him enough to claim him as their own. It was selfish, certainly. But somehow Clara couldn’t find it in herself to care much about that – recalling Missy’s warning about how addictive John found her, she was forced to admit to herself that he was precisely as addictive to her. Her own personal drug; her own particular form of therapy. Because it was undeniable – John helped her to feel more put-together than she had been in months, if not years. 

She knew it would destroy her. God knows, she was certain of that fact – that one day he would wrench away from her, and she would be left broken and longing and alone. Each time he smiled at her or met her gaze, she tried to remind herself that falling deeper and deeper would only prove to be her downfall. Yet, somehow, she couldn’t find herself caring. Somehow, she couldn’t find it in herself to give up the temptation that was John; steadfast, witty, sarcastic, and _hers_. Or, at least, hers for the two hours a day they recorded, and the rest of the time… well, the rest of the time, she didn’t like to consider the matter. He never spoke of family, or friends beyond work, and so she liked to think – in moments of idle selfishness – that perhaps _she_ was his world, and that perhaps she was therefore special. Yet, equally, she knew that she may also just be another work colleague – another fool to be tolerated, and nothing more. Clara tried to allay these thoughts, but there were nights when they came to her and lay insistently upon her chest, impeding her breathing and preventing her from seeing the world clearly. _John chose me,_ she would remind herself, hyperventilating as though she had run a race. _John chose me and he stays with me and he likes me._  

Yet still the insidious, damning thoughts pervaded her mind, and she would groan and go in search of Amy to alleviate her agonies. Amy would stroke her hair and talk her through carefully controlled breathing, until she was calm once more. Addicted, without a doubt, but calm. Amy could make the anxieties about John and Missy and the show and listeners go away for long enough to catch her breath, and so she clung to her flatmate that winter, seeking support as she went about her days, and finally, as the snowdrops began to emerge, Clara felt more content. She became aware of a sense of equilibrium settling over her, and she realised that she would be able to cope with Coal Hill, and the radio show, and everything else that came with such pressures.

Thus it was that Clara approached February with a simmering addiction to her colleague, but a renewed sense of optimism burning alongside that. She was strong, and she could cope with matters – whether those matters be John’s staggering romantic ambivalence towards her, Missy’s scathing attitude, or Amy’s impending nuptials. She _could_ cope, and she _would_ cope. That much she knew. 

Then she strode into Radio TARDIS one dull winter’s afternoon, and found a figure sat in Studio 12 who by rights should not have been there. 

In that instant, her world fell apart.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer is made to the duo which seems too good to be true, so why is Clara having second thoughts? Is it the prospect of spending more time with John? Or is it something else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, that was quite the cliffhanger, wasn't it?

“Evening, Clara,” Raz said, conversationally, looking up at her from over steepled fingers. His very presence was anxiety-inducing, but the reserved expression on his face even more so – it suggested that something was amiss, and Clara’s thoughts jumped immediately to the worst-case scenario. “How was work?”

“I’m being fired, aren’t I?” she blurted, her heart dropping, and she fought back tears. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “Oh my god, you’re firing me.” She could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate, and she clung to her travel mug of coffee in an attempt to anchor herself as Raz smiled serenely up at her, apparently unfazed by her panic. 

“Why would you think that?” he asked in a measured tone, and Clara looked past him to John, whose expression of shock seemed to confirm her worst fears. “Do you feel that you’ve been underperforming?” 

“I… no… please…” 

“Come on,” John interjected in a weary voice, shooting a sharp glance at his boss for which Clara was grateful. “Don’t mess with her, it’s not fair.” 

“I’m not messing with anyone.” 

“Raz, I think she’s forgotten how to breathe. Give her a break.” 

“That’s not my fault!” Raz protested, as Clara closed her eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. Something about inhaling and exhaling, possibly, not that her lungs were up to cooperating. Faced with the prospect of no longer spending time with John, she was not sure any part of her would cooperate on anything ever again. “She made assumptions!”

“Hey,” John said softly from beside her, and Clara started, her eyes snapping open to find her colleague at her side. “Clara, you’re not being fired. You’re not in any trouble.”

She leaned towards him reflexively, and his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against his chest in a gesture of comfort that she appreciated. Taking a deep breath and trying to get her emotions under control, she looked up at John, then over to Raz again. “What’s going on?” she asked, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “Are _you_ being fired?”

“Quite the opposite, act-” 

“Clara, I want to move you and John to the drivetime slot,” Raz interjected, in a gleeful tone that was at odds with his calm demeanour. “You’ve brought in so many new listeners that we need to capitalise on that, and we think this is the best way to move forward.” 

“I… what… that’s…” she stammered, unsure of what to say. It was a huge step – one that she wasn’t sure she was ready for, despite her newfound confidence. She tried to find something intelligent to say, or at the very least something that wouldn’t betray her mounting lack of certainty about the prospect. “But my job…” 

“It would be a five o’clock show,” John told her, meeting her gaze and smiling reassuringly. “So, you could come straight here from work, and then do marking afterwards. Or whatever works for you. You wouldn’t have to give anything up.” 

“Isn’t that Journey’s slot?” Clara asked faintly, her mind casting back over the Radio TARDIS schedule. “I don’t want to step on her toes…” 

“She’s asked to be moved,” Raz shrugged, dismissively. “She wants to play edgier stuff, and it’s just not suitable for that time slot. Not to mention the bloody attitude problem she’s had going on since she broke up with Psi. Our listeners aren’t enjoying the non-stop screamo music and Adele on their way home from work.” 

“OK, yeah, not ideal,” Clara acquiesced, still leaning against John for support. “I just… it’s a lot to consider…” 

“The station has faith in you,” Raz told her, and Clara blinked at him in surprise. He was not, by and large, the type of man to make such declarations. “You’ve been one hell of a gamble, but one that paid off. Luckily for John.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled shyly, unused to such praise from the upper echelons of management. “I just… it’s the school, I don’t know if they’re going to like me doing this. They already think I’m disruptive.” 

“Well, this option would minimise disruption to the school day, and obviously should you have any extracurricular events to attend to, then John would be more than happy to present on his own for a day.”

“Would you?” she asked, and John smiled at her. 

“Of course,” he gave her a quick squeeze. “I really think we could do this.” 

“It’s…” she sighed, unable to form her anxieties into words. “I don’t know. I didn’t ever think things would get this… big.” 

“Such is the nature of the beast, I’m afraid,” Raz said, before John could reply. “Welcome to showbiz.”

“I don’t know if I like showbiz.” 

“Well, showbiz likes you, Clara. Give it some thought. Speak to your school. Let us know.” 

“Can I go home?” she asked abruptly, blinking up at John in consternation. She needed to think, and presenting the show would prevent her from doing so. “It’s a lot to think about… can you record alone tonight? Make up an excuse for me; say I’m ill or whatever. I just need to get my head together.” 

“Sure,” John said at once, though his eyes were full of concern that she understood he was reluctant to express in front of his boss. “Text me later.” 

“I will,” she promised, stepping away from him and feeling her heartbeat begin to race as she did so. “Thanks, Raz.”

“Clara-” John began, but she turned and raced from the studio before he could say another word. Stumbling outside and across darkened pavements, she approached the Tube mechanically, barely aware of her surroundings as she swiped her Oyster card and made her way down to the platform. By the time she had reached her flat, it was icy cold and pitch black outside, but she barely registered any of that as she stepped over the threshold of her home and sank to the hall floor. 

“Clara?” Amy asked, wandering out of the kitchen in a dressing gown and looking abjectly horrified as she took in the sight of Clara, curled up and panicking on the rug. “What’s happened?” 

“They want to move our show,” Clara managed to say by way of an explanation, clutching her knees to her chest. “To drivetime.” 

“Which is great,” Amy said at once, sinking down to the carpet beside her flatmate and wrapping an arm around her awkwardly. “You know, we own a sofa.” 

“Is a drivetime show great?” Clara wondered aloud. 

“Well, yeah. You love presenting.”

“I do, just…” Clara sighed, the journey home having given her the opportunity to form her thoughts into coherent sentences. “I don’t know if I love it enough to be that full-on. I mean, what about school?” 

“What about it?”

“They’re going to get arsey about it. They’re already not keen on me-” 

“Oswald, you’ve gotta stop creating problems where they don’t exist. It’s not healthy, babe, and it’s not good for you.” 

“I’m not creating problems! I’m elucidating problems!” 

“Well, what time is the show they want you to take over?” 

“They said five.” 

Amy rolled her eyes, suppressing a snort. “So, stop worrying. You can do that.” 

“Can I?” 

“Yes, you can, you prat. It’s a great opportunity to advance your radio career, plus an opportunity to spend more time with John, which is always a bonus. Don’t even try to deny that.” 

“You’re awful.” 

“No, I’m pragmatic,” Amy shrugged. “You fancy him, so spending time with him is a win. I know you, Oswald.” 

“Amy…” 

“Nope, I’m not going to listen to any more excuses. You need to let the station know that you would like to take them up on their very kind offer, and that is an order. If Coal Hill don’t like it, they can stick their bloody job, it’s not like you aren’t earning enough at Radio TARDIS to get by. You can manage without teaching if they’re going to be all stuck-up and boring about you doing radio work.” 

“I’m not earning enough to resign!” 

“Oh, yeah,” Amy scoffed, affixing Clara with an unimpressed look. “How much was that contract for?” 

“Eighteen thousand,” Clara mumbled, blushing. It seemed a princely sum when spoken aloud, but after little over a month, she’d barely earned a fraction of that amount. “You know what I mean.”

“Wait,” Amy held up a hand, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Are they gonna pay you more now? They’d better pay you more, because drivetime _deserves_ more. Especially if you actually get more listeners, which you will, because people like hearing you flirt with John. Holy crap, woman, you’re gonna be loaded.” 

“Well I’m going to need to be, aren’t I?” Clara snapped, irritated by Amy’s focus on her financial situation. “Especially once you’ve got married and moved out, and I’m trying to pay rent on this place on my own. So I need both jobs to sustain myself.” 

“You’ll have married John by then,” Amy shot back, elbowing her flatmate in the side and overlooking her outburst of temper. “Stop being a whiny little bitch and take the job offer, Oswald.” 

“But-” 

“You are being _paid to talk_. It is literally the most ideal job for you. That and the teaching. So, do both. Be rich. Be happy.”

“Money can’t buy you happiness,” Clara reminded her, feeling her resolve crumbling. “Remember?” 

“Ah,” Amy smiled philosophically. “But it’s much nicer crying in a Bentley than it is crying on the Tube.”

 

* * *

 

John switched off the studio lights and flung himself onto the aged sofa in Missy’s office with a groan. 

“So, she hasn’t texted you then?” his producer asked, without looking up from her computer. “I bet she flakes.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” he argued, knowing he was rising to the bait, but not caring. “She’s been stressed, but she’s getting better. This is a great opportunity.” 

“For you, yeah.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” John asked, rolling over to affix his producer with a dark look that she completely ignored. “Missy?”

“Well, this is what you’ve wanted all along. A move back to drivetime. So, you could ditch her now, couldn’t you? Stop prolonging her agony.”

“What agony? What are you talking about?” he asked, irritated by the suggestion. “I’m not ditching anyone!”

“Oh, please,” Missy snorted. “How oblivious are you? The woman is madly in love with you.” 

“She is _not_.” 

“She looks like a lovesick puppy about ninety-five percent of the time. It’s honestly quite sickening. Then again, I can’t say I blame you for not noticing; you are only a man.” 

“Hey!”

“Well, you are. She’s bonkers about you, and she wants to make you happy. She’d probably jump off Tower bloody Bridge for you if you asked nicely. _Can_ you ask nicely? Her heart-eyes are beginning to piss me off.”

“Stop being a cow,” he shot back, trying to ignore how his heart leapt at her words. He knew that Missy was only saying such things to wind him up, but still his heart stuttered painfully at hearing the words “Clara” and “love” and “you” in the same sentence. “She’s not in love with me, I’m a cranky old Glaswegian with a dead wife and a drink problem.” 

“A very long-dead wife, and a recovering drink problem,” Missy corrected. “John, she’s nuts about you.” 

“I’m old.” 

“You’re fifty-eight.”

“I’m cranky.” 

“Not to her.”

“I’m ugly.”

“That one I can’t refute,” Missy barbed, and John threw a nearby pillow at her, which she neatly dodged. “Look, she likes you. Or she likes the wage packet. One of the above.” 

“Can you just… not be a bitch? For five seconds? Would that kill you?” 

“Probably.” 

“Can you stop lying to me, as well?” 

“I’m not lying to you, John!” she flung her hands in the air. “Just _watch_ the damn girl. If she doesn’t pack in her mooning in the next few months, I’m going to get her head examined. Failing that, I’m going to have to severely mutilate you, to ward off crowds of hysterical teenage girls.” 

“She’s not a teenage-” John was distracted by his phone vibrating in his pocket, and he whipped it out with apprehension. 

“You appear to be a teenage boy,” Missy teased, and he flipped her off without looking up from his phone screen. “You look like you’re about to faint over a text message.”

_I’m in if you are. Also, a pay rise would be nice. ;)  (Amy made me add that bit, she’s all for equal pay… which is taking the piss as I don’t have your experience, so we compromised on ‘a pay rise.’)_

“She’s in,” he said in stupefaction, more to himself than to Missy. “She’ll do it.” 

Missy looked disappointed. “Damn. Well, I owe Journey a tenner.” 

“You… no, I don’t even want to know. Can she have a pay rise?”

“Journey?”

“No, Clara.” 

“Well, we probably should, or the PC brigade will be out in their full luvvie might, complaining about equal rights.” 

“Again with the, ‘Why are you such a bitch?’ question.” 

“It’s a natural skill,” she poked her tongue out at him. “We’ll get you both in for contract negotiations this weekend. Does that sound acceptable?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“Also maybe some interviews.” 

“Wait-” 

“No, don’t argue,” Missy said sternly. “New show means promo. Promo means interviews, and possibly also photos. So, try not to get all loved up in front of any cameras. _The Sun_ still thinks you’re a pervert and I don’t really fancy any more court orders.” 

“Well, we won the last one.” 

“Yes, because Donna is bloody good at her job,” Missy rolled her eyes. “God, I’m looking forward to her meeting Clara.” 

“Why?” John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“Because they’re deliciously similar, and sparks will fly.” 

“You’re a bloody nightmare,” John complained, then resigned himself to Missy’s machinations. “When do you want me to invite Clara in? Tomorrow?” 

“Oh, I’m sure I can whip up some interviews by then, so why not?” she paused for a moment, scanning her desktop calendar. “Tell her 10 a.m.” 

“That seems… early.” 

“Well, such is the price to pay for being a prime-time presenter. Damn, that was some lovely alliteration on my part.”

“Alright, calm down,” John shook his head. “Anything else?” 

“Well… does she know anyone who can edit content?”

“Isn’t that your job?” 

“Yes, dear. But drivetime generally requires more structure than your usual train-of-thought crap, so I might need assistance with giving you shit to talk about.” 

“Was that painful to admit?” 

“Agony,” Missy said drily. “If she knows anyone, that would be fabulous. But then again, she does work with vertically challenged hormonal idiots, so I sincerely doubt it.” 

John ignored the last comment, typing out a response to Clara and trying to contain his burgeoning excitement about the new show. 

_Missy says come in at 10 tomorrow for contracts and press. If you know any content editors, that would also be good. (She made me add the last part. What is it with us and Scottish women?)_

The reply was almost instantaneous: 

 _10am works for me. How about Amy? She comes with the advantage of being Scottish._  

“Missy?” John asked tentatively, unsure what she would make of Clara’s idea. “What about Amy? Clara’s flatmate?” 

“What about her?” 

“She’s just written a book.” 

“I thought she modelled? Pretty thing.”

“She’s multitalented,” John retorted, overlooking Missy’s appraisal. “Plus, she’s from Inverness.”

Missy hesitated for a moment, then shrugged in assertion. “Well, invite her, too. It’ll be a laugh, if nothing else.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John are faced with a journalist... one who has some _very_ intimate questions for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring an appearance from my favourite lesbian chip angel. At long last.

Clara was not entirely sure what one was supposed to wear to press interviews, but she sincerely hoped her choice of a flattering, relatively casual dress was an appropriate one. Combined with a minimal makeup look that Amy had looked up on Pinterest the night before, Clara prayed that she wouldn’t make any negative first impressions on journalists, or at least no more than she already had, back when she had debuted on the show in December. She sighed at the thought of reading tomorrow’s papers, swiping her card and stepping into the Radio TARDIS building, surprised to find John waiting for her in reception. 

“Hey,” she said in an overly bright tone, trying to sound more upbeat than she felt. “Everything OK?” 

“You look nice,” he said bashfully, the tips of his ears turning red as he spoke. “I mean, nicer than usual.” 

“You’re sweet,” she felt herself smile, and some of her nerves dissipated. Talking to the press with John would be easy: just the two of them and a journalist and maybe a photographer. Nothing she couldn’t handle. She gave her co-presenter a perfunctory appraisal, realising that he’d shaved off his two-day stubble and combed his hair – although she suspected Missy may have intervened in an attempt to battle his usual unruly mop. His ratty old hoodie had been replaced with a black jumper and matching jeans, and he managed to somehow look both rockstar and ridiculous all in one. “Not so bad yourself.” 

“Missy attacked me with a comb.” 

“I thought she might’ve,” she laughed, linking her arm through his. “Why are you loitering out here?” 

“Because it was come and wait for you, or sit in a room with Missy and a bloke from _The Evening Standard_ and watch her flirting with the poor chap." 

“And here I was thinking you were being chivalrous.” 

“Also that,” he acquiesced. “This was the only interview she could wrangle at such short notice, but it’s got clout, apparently. I’m not sure why, but that’s Missy for you. Speaking of which, isn’t Amy coming?” 

“She’s on a shoot this morning, but she’ll be here later,” Clara assured him, patting his arm. “Don’t you worry about that. She’s pretty damn keen on reducing me to an English minority.” 

“Ach, you can’t complain about that in England! You’re surrounded by your fellow countrymen! And women, don’t hit me for being sexist.”

“Oh? What’s stopping me from complaining?” Clara arched an eyebrow playfully. “You?” 

“Good morning, lovebirds,” boomed an American voice behind them, and Clara turned to see Jack approaching them with a distinct swagger. “Well, don’t you both look a picture?” 

“We are not _lovebirds,_ ” John said wearily. “Clara is my very pretty co-worker.” 

“Well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t object to me telling her how tremendously beautiful she looks in that dress,” Jack took Clara’s hand and bowed low, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Ma’am.” 

Clara giggled, but she could feel John’s gaze burning into her as Jack straightened up. “Thank you, Jack. Don’t you have security to attend to?” 

“What could be more important than securing myself the heart of a beautiful woman?” 

“Your boyfriend?” John muttered under his breath, and Clara smacked him in the arm. “Ow!” 

“Mr Smith, we’ve told you many times: it’s a flexible arrangement. It’s not my fault that you’ve never had the fortuitousness to find such a partner.” 

“You cheeky…” John began, but Clara stepped on his toe, and he took the hint and shut up. 

“Jack, stop winding him up. John, that goes for you too. We should probably go and check in with Missy, make sure she hasn’t eaten this poor journo alive.” 

“Have a wonderful day,” Jack enthused, grinning. “Make the old man look good.” 

“I intend to,” Clara tipped him a wink, taking John by the arm and marching him down the corridors towards Studio 12. “Be nice.” She instructed firmly. “To Jack, and to this journalist.” 

“I am not old!” he protested, evidently still insulted by Jack’s words. “And I’m always nice.” 

“You’re sometimes nice,” Clara corrected. “When you feel like it.” 

“I’m always nice to _you_.” 

“OK, I can’t dispute that. My point stands though.” 

Arriving at their studio, they stepped inside to find Missy giggling, sat on the sofa beside a somewhat dazed-looking journalist who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. “Missy,” John said, in an exaggerated, patient tone, scowling at her until she edged away from him fractionally. “You’re scaring the nice young man.” 

“We’re just talking,” she cooed, getting to her feet nonetheless. “Clara, this is Rigsy. Rigsy, this lovely thing with inflatable eyes is Clara.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Clara said as politely as she was able, and the youngster got to his feet and shook her hand. “I hope Missy hasn’t said anything too awful about me.” 

“Nothing that isn’t true,” Missy muttered, which Clara magnanimously ignored. 

“No, she was just… she was really nice,” the young man reassured her, smiling at Clara broadly. “I’m looking forward to chatting to you both, I love your show. My fiancée and I have a baby girl, so we end up sticking it on when we get up to see to her in the night.” 

“Aww, how old is she?” Clara asked, smiling at John, who looked disinterested. “And what’s her name?” 

“Lucy,” Rigsy said, pride evident in his tone. “Six months. Haven’t slept a wink since she was born, but she’s worth every second.”

“In which case, this interview is going to require coffee,” John interjected, looking at Missy pointedly. “Missy?” 

“I’m your producer, not the coffee girl.” 

“Don’t care. Fetch.” 

“I’m definitely not a dog.”

John only glowered by way of response, and Missy swept from the room, muttering under her breath as she went. 

“Sorry about her,” he said to Rigsy. “She’s… well, a bit intense.” 

“It’s fine,” the young man laughed. “Met weirder. Are you two OK to be interviewed in here, or would you prefer somewhere a little more relaxed?” 

“Here works,” Clara shrugged, sinking down on the sofa. “Comfy sofa is comfy.” 

“Seconded,” John added, taking a seat beside her and looking up at Rigsy expectantly. “Did you bring a photographer?” 

“I take my own photos,” he shrugged, gesturing to his bag. “But we’ll do that after, I prefer to get the talking out the way first.” 

“You’re…” John began, chewing his lip. “Unusual. For a journalist.” 

“‘Unusual’ is nicer than ‘weird,’ which is what I usually get.” 

“Well, in that case, most people are rude,” Clara said, shooting John a warning glare. “Including John. Ignore him, I do.” 

Rigsy grinned, sitting in Missy’s chair and extracting an iPad and stylus from his bag. “Wise words.” 

“You cheeky…” John murmured, low enough for only Clara to hear, and she blushed, before he added more loudly: “So, questions?”

Rigsy tapped something on the screen of his device, then settled back in his chair, stylus poised to take notes. “You know, this really is quite the turn up. John Smith returning to drivetime after years away – and with a co-presenter, too. Quite the shock after your little outburst back in ninety-five.” 

John’s eyes widened in horror, and Clara looked to Rigsy in confusion. “What outburst?” 

“I believe the exact words were, ‘I will hire a co-presenter when I’m dead, decrepit, or shitting in a bag.’” 

“John!” Clara looked at him in scandalised amusement. “You didn’t actually say that?!” 

“Urm,” he mumbled, visibly mortified. “I might’ve.”

“Well,” she clicked her tongue. “You’re not dead or decrepit, so shall we ascertain that you’re shitting in a bag?”

“I’m retrospectively amending my statement,” John said loudly, ignoring Clara’s comment. “I will hire a co-presenter when I’m dead, decrepit, shitting in a bag, or said co-presenter is a five-foot-one English teacher with an egomania problem.”

“Rude.” 

“Accurate.” 

“Now who’s being cheeky?”

“I’m just answering the question,” he smiled angelically. “Don’t blame me.” 

“John thinks he’s funny,” Clara deadpanned to Rigsy. “He’s actually dead; this is his reanimated corpse.” 

“Looking good for a dead guy,” Rigsy said in an equally serious tone. “Sounding pretty good, too.”

“You’re both awful,” John groaned. “Yes, I said that back in the nineties. I think I was drunk at the time. Clara, however, is a fairly unobjectionable co-presenter, so I’m breaking with the past and working with someone new to carry the show forward.”

“That was almost a compliment,” Clara teased. “Wow.” 

“So, how did you two go from… well, _that_ press campaign to here?” Rigsy asked, and Clara looked to John, unsure where to begin. 

“Well, once Clara and I met, we realised we had a lot in common,” John explained, gesturing vaguely. “Similar tastes in music, that sort of thing. And after a while I realised that the way we bounced off each other was just… fun, and interesting, and it might add a new dynamic to the show to bring that in.” 

“Which is how I got my segment,” Clara took over. “Because John thought listeners would enjoy listening to us banter-” 

“I’m opposed to that word.” 

“Shush. It was popular, and then John sprung it on me that he wanted me to join him on the whole show, and people just… they went nuts for it.” 

“People like Clara more than me,” John joked. “She’s much nicer than I am.” 

“Don’t be so self-deprecating. People like you just fine.” 

“Do not.”

“Do.” 

“Clara,” Rigsy said, interrupting their back-and-forth. “What’s it like balancing this with your main job? You teach, right?” 

“It’s not too bad,” she shrugged, trying to look offhand. “I’m pretty good at time management – John, stop rolling your eyes – so it’s fairly doable.” 

“Does John spend a lot of time winding you up?” 

“Oh, hours. It’s his favourite hobby.” 

“She’s right,” John concurred. “It’s so easy to do, which helps.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“You’re too sensitive.” 

“You’re a pain in the arse.” 

“So, how long have you two been dating?” Rigsy asked, and they both fell silent, blinking at him in confusion. “What?”

“We aren’t…” Clara began, thrown by the question. “We aren’t dating.”

“We really aren’t,” John clarified, refusing to meet Clara’s gaze as he spoke. “Both very much single.”

“Sorry,” Rigsy looked down, embarrassed. “I just assumed… I’ve read some stuff online…”

“What sort of stuff?” John asked, narrowing his eyes. “And where?” 

“Twitter, that sort of thing. People are speculating about the two of you being an item. I believe they’ve christened you ‘Smithwald.’”

“Well, we’re not,” Clara said bluntly, half-horrified and half-pleased that people might think they were. “So, moving on.” 

“Right,” Rigsy said, clearing his throat. “So…”

 

* * *

 

Clara hunched over a canteen table, picking at the unappealing-looking sandwich she’d already partially dissected. Extracting a wafer-thin slice of tomato and examining it listlessly, she was contemplating just sticking the whole lot in the bin when she felt someone sink into the seat beside her, and slid her eyes sideways to take in the sight of an unimpressed-looking canteen worker, who was holding out a bowl of chips and a bowl of apple pie with custard in what – to Clara – looked like a somewhat threatening gesture.

“Urm,” Clara said uncertainly, turning her full attention to the girl at her side, whose hair was spilling out of her hairnet and who looked entirely, completely done with Clara’s shit. Or the canteen’s shit. One of the two. Or possibly both. “What’s with this?”

“You look miserable as hell,” the girl said pragmatically. “So, I’m offering you free food. I’ll probably get fired, but you’re cute, and you’re sad, so eat something more appealing than that damn sandwich. I’ve been watching you pick at it for a good twenty minutes and it’s doing my nut in.” 

“Sorry, who are you?” 

“Christ, you radio lot really don’t pay the little people much attention.” 

“I don’t usually eat here,” Clara argued, irritated by the girl’s suggestion. “I work-” 

“You work with John, yeah, I know,” she shrugged. “I’m Bill.”

“You work here?” 

“No, I’m dressed like this for the shits and gigs.” 

“Sorry, stupid question.” 

“Just a little, yeah,” Bill rolled her eyes. “Why the long face? Spill. Also take a bowl, yeah? They’re hot.” 

Clara accepted the bowl of apple pie, and stuck a spoon into the dessert as Bill began to eat the rejected chips at a truly startling rate. “Someone thought John and I were dating.” 

“Ew.” 

“Hey!” 

“Sorry, he’s not my type.” 

“Because he’s old?” 

“Because he’s a bloke,” Bill raised an eyebrow. “What’s the issue with people thinking you’re an item? You basically are.”

“I don’t know,” Clara spooned apple pie into her mouth and chewed it as she ruminated on the issue. The food wasn’t great, but it was better than the awful sandwich, so she couldn’t complain. “S’weird.”

“Swallow before speaking,” Bill said, still consuming chips at top speed. “Please.”

“Says you.” 

“Yeah, says me. I work here, I’m allowed to be gross.” 

“Well, look, the John thing’s not so much an issue, just…” 

“You fancy him.” 

“What the _fuck_?” Clara asked with incredulity, pausing in her consumption of mediocre apple pie. “Why does everyone-” 

“It’s pretty obvious,” Bill snorted. “Why are you mooning about this today? Other than the dating thing.” 

“We had a photoshoot.” 

“Did you have to snog?” 

“No!” 

“Shame,” Bill tutted. “You need to get your shit together. This level of moping over men is truly unacceptable. Not least because they are all – without exception – idiots.”

“Rude.” 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

“OK, good point,” Clara sighed. “I don’t know, it’s-” 

Amy appeared in the doors of the canteen, and she waved at Clara before beginning to stride over to where she was sat. Clara took in Amy’s skin-tight jeans and form-fitting jumper, noticing how many looks she was attracting and rolling her eyes. 

“God help my tiny gay soul,” Bill breathed, her mouth falling open. “That woman is just… made of legs.” 

“She’s also engaged.” 

“Fuck _sake_.” 

“I’m not, though.” 

Bill affixed her with a look. “You’re not my type, and you’re basically _emotionally_ engaged to John. But call me in a few years if you’re still unattached, and I’ll do something about that, alright? In the meantime, finish your damn food and try not to mope too much. It’s not sexy.” 

With that, she got up and headed back towards the kitchen, and Amy sank into the recently vacated chair seconds later. “Who was she?” 

“She works here. She thinks you’re hot.”

“I _am_ hot.”

“Amy.”

“What? You’ve got your mopey face on, I was trying to put off dealing with that.” 

“ _I am not moping,_ ” Clara said, somewhat more loudly than intended. “I’m just… look, let me finish this, and we can go back to Little Scotland.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Just… please don’t talk too much about haggis, or kilts, OK? Or my not-mopeyness.” 

“Not making any promises.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As rumours begin to fly, Clara and John have a difficult choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words! Glad you're all enjoying this!

Clara stepped into the studio on Monday evening, drenched from a persistent February rainstorm that had commenced as she left Coal Hill and continued relentlessly as she crossed London on public transport. Her shoes squelched as she tramped through the corridors towards Studio 12, and she grimaced as her coat dripped onto the carpets, leaving a trail of droplets behind her. _Still,_ she thought to herself optimistically, trying not to break into a jog, _the studio will be warm, and dry, and contain John, and possibly Amy. Depending on how much she wants to witness my abject humiliation. Which is probably quite a lot._

As she pushed open the doors to their studio, Clara was unsurprised but unimpressed to find Missy, who was pinning a sheet of newspaper to the wall above the sofa, chiding John as she did so. Amy was, mercifully, absent. 

“You two look wonderful, stop complaining,” Missy shot over her shoulder at him, and he scowled from his position leaning against her desk with a forced air of nonchalance. Clara was disconcerted when Missy turned to face her and beamed in a way that reminded her distinctly of predators in nature documentaries. “Clara! Tell John you both look perfectly delectable in your _Evening Standard_ interview.” 

“I, urm…” Clara mumbled, taken aback, shrugging off her wet coat and hanging it in the corner, before kicking off her shoes and grimacing at her soggy tights. “I haven’t seen it.” 

“Well, that’s poor tactical planning. It’s your first press interview! It’s a huge deal, get excited!”

“No, it’s embarrassing.” 

“Amy said you’d say that,” Missy rolled her eyes dismissively. “Come and have a look.” The Scotswoman beckoned a reluctant Clara over to the wall, and gestured to the double-page spread. From the centre of the feature, a photo of Clara and John looked out at the reader, his arm slung loosely around her waist as she laughed, neither of them looking at the camera.

“That’s…” Clara blinked in surprise, taken aback by the candour of the photo. She remembered it being taken, but she certainly hadn’t anticipated that Rigsy would end up using it. She looked happy – happier than she had in months, and the revelation shocked her a little as she contrasted it with her assertion, last year, that she would never be happy again. She sighed, her eyes roving from her face to John’s. “John, you look…”

“Shite?” he said glumly, sighing and looking down at his shoes in obvious discomfort. “Like your dad?” 

“You look… lit up. Like, you look like you’re happy, and it’s shining out of you.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Missy deadpanned. “Someone managed to make him look both happy _and_ not decrepit. It’s practically a miracle.”

“Rude,” John snapped, looking up and scowling at his producer. “I _am_ happy.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that again,” Missy admitted. “I thought after River-”

“Yes, OK,” John interjected, casting a wary eye over to Andrew, who was perched at his cramped desk in the corner, albeit with headphones in and his head bobbing to music. “I know. I guess it’s an alright photo. Clara’s the one people that will be looking at anyway, not me.”

“You should read the article later, you know, not just salivate over Clara. Rigsy speculates about the two of you,” Missy teased. “Whether you’re dating or not. They reckon you’ve got a thing going in secret.” 

“We told him no,” Clara said firmly, looking to John for support and watching as he nodded in agreement. “And we meant no. You should know that-”

“Rule number one is that John lies?” Missy arched an eyebrow. “Believe me, I do.”

“I do not!” 

“Sure, Mister ‘Yes Missy, I _am_ attending my AA meetings.’” 

“That was _once._ ” 

“That was once a bloody week for a good two months. Stop being an argumentative prick and get in the studio, you’ve got a show to do.”

“That’s you told,” Clara teased, poking her tongue out at him. “Boyfriend.” 

“Clara, I’m not your boyfriend.”

“Course you’re not. Nice spring wedding sound like a plan? I know it’s soon, but-” 

Missy grinned at the pair of them, shooing them into the studio just as Amy rushed in, holding aloft two boxes of chocolates that looked slightly damp around the edges. 

“I come bearing congratulatory gifts,” she informed Clara and John in a somewhat breathless voice. “Or pre-congratulatory gifts. Encouragement. You know, for your first live drivetime show.”

“I should be getting _you_ a gift,” Clara replied, accepting the proffered box of confectionary nonetheless, taking off the lid and finding the contents thankfully dry and edible. “Thanks, you. These look delicious. I’ll take you for drinks this weekend as a congrats for getting this gig. Just don’t go nuts and order twenty bottles of champagne.”

“Clara, c’mon, she’s Scottish,” Missy said in a singsong tone. “She was always going to get the job. She had a distinct geographical advantage over the other candidates.” 

“That’s probably racist,” John observed, taking his box and sinking down in his chair as he opened it, grinning at the selection of chocolates within. “Or something.” 

“Definitely racist,” Clara agreed, entering the studio and taking a seat beside him. “I’ll be fired for being English soon.” 

“Nah,” John shrugged, shoving two chocolates into his mouth and talking with his mouth full. “’ow’d it go a’ schoo’?”

“Manners,” Clara chided, watching as John swallowed and then took a swig of water with a conciliatory expression. “Fine. Armitage was actually really keen about it, said he’d listen on his way home. So that’s… nice, I guess.” 

“We’ll have at least one listener,” John winked. “Always good.”

“I’m not getting fired from teaching,” Clara shot back. “Also always good.” 

“Fair point,” he concurred, then added in a low voice: “Are you scared?” 

“A bit.” 

“It’s just like the late-night show,” he assured her, taking her hand and squeezing it. She felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders at the contact. “That’s all it is. Talking to people, and each other.” 

“John, I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” she confessed in a whisper. “Late-night is one thing… this is just…”

“Clara, you talk to people – admittedly in an educational capacity – for a living. You can absolutely manage a radio show. You _have_ been managing a radio show for months. It’s just you and me. OK? Just you and me, just like it’s always been.” 

“But-” 

“Clara, you get like this every time. And every time, you’re amazing.” 

“You’re very sweet sometimes, you know that?” Clara asked, reaching up and cupping John’s cheek with a smile. 

“This is why people think you’re dating,” Missy interrupted via the intercom, and they both jumped, Clara pulling away from her co-presenter and turning a furious shade of red. “Headphones on, please. We’re live in one minute.” 

“Fuck,” Clara mumbled under her breath, putting on her headphones and squeezing her eyes shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Under the desk, she felt John slip his hand into hers again, and she relaxed fractionally, keeping her eyes closed. 

“Live in ten… nine… eight… seven…”

Clara tuned Missy’s voice out, focusing on the feel of John’s hand in hers, and seconds later he launched into his introduction with ease and Clara felt her nerves dissipate.

“Good evening, listeners, you’re listening to _Drivetime with John and Clara_ on 88 to 91 FM, it’s five o’clock on this rainy February day, and do you know how I can tell it’s raining? My co-presenter is dripping all over her very comfortable, very well-loved chair next to me.” 

“That sounds vaguely inappropriate, John,” Clara said in a serious tone. “Not to mention the fact it sounds like you live in the studios and never emerge to see weather phenomena.” 

“I _do_ live in the studios. I sleep under my desk.” 

“Explains the hair.”

“Listeners _love_ my hair.” 

“Do they though? Listeners, tweet in and let us know: do you like John’s hair? Or do you think it needs a bit of taming?” 

“Please do note that if anyone says they hate it, I will cry.”

“I’m sure I can cheer you up,” Clara teased. “Don’t you worry about that.” 

“I bet you can. Now, for our first record of the night…” he looked over at the screen, and grimaced. “Clara, why did you choose this? Come on, it messes with my vibe.” 

“It’s a great song, John. We can’t all be moody punks forever. Here’s _December 1963,_ also known as _Oh, What a Night,_ by The Four Seasons.” 

As the song faded in, Clara looked up at John and smiled, feeling more confident. 

“You know,” Missy observed via their headphones before Clara could say anything. “We’ve had ten tweets in the last thirty seconds asking, ‘Are those two shagging?’ in various iterations.” 

“Christ,” Clara grimaced. “I mean, do we have to reply? Or acknowledge they exist?” 

“We could tell them to fuck off,” John suggested. “Or would that exacerbate the problem?” 

“That would definitely exacerbate it,” Missy rolled her eyes. “We could start a rumour that Clara’s a lesbian.” 

“OK, one: that’s definitely mildly homophobic in at least some form; and two: it’s also half true, so it’s not really starting a rumour so much as, ‘providing a piece of information that I’m not comfortable sharing.’”

“I was kidding.”

“Well, it’s not funny,” Clara scowled. “Next idea?”

“We announce that John has a girlfriend who isn’t you?” Missy mused. “Me, for example.” 

“I think I’d sooner date Clara, thanks.” John caught sight of Clara’s expression. “What?! I would!” 

“Well, thanks,” she barbed, trying to ignore the way her heart had leapt at his words. “Good to know I’m preferable to the Scottish psychopath.” 

“I am not a psychopath!” their producer argued. 

“You bribed someone into making a radio show by threatening to leak her nudes,” John said.

“They were very nice nudes. Also, John, confidentiality is a thing, you know.”

“Nah,” he leaned back in his chair. “Not if it indirectly involves Clara. Now. We’re ignoring those tweets, and moving the hell on.”

“But-”

“Missy, it could be much worse,” John observed pointedly. “As rumours go, this one is pretty mild.” 

“True,” Missy chewed the end of her pen. “It’s better than that one about you having a harem.”

“That was a thing?” Clara asked, her eyes widening.

“Yeah, I apparently had an orgy room back at my place,” John said with disdain. “I mean, seriously?” 

“Wow,” Clara looked affronted, then asked: “Where was my invite?” 

“Oh, my bad,” John replied sarcastically. “Next time, you’re top of the guest list.” 

“Dear god, you two are just…” Amy interrupted, returning with coffee and shaking her head at the two of them. “Adorable idiots.” 

“Thanks?” Clara shot her flatmate a quizzical look. “I think.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Missy looked at the timer. Frankie Valli would be wrapping up momentarily. “You’re back on air in twenty.”

 

* * *

 

As far as John was concerned, the rest of the show passed in a blur: one long, inscrutable whirl of Clara laughing and teasing him, Missy shooting them acerbic comments, Amy occasionally daring to interject with her own witticism, and Andrew casting them long, chastising glances from his desk whenever their flirting became a little too overt. Because there was no doubt that it _was_ flirting – that much John could no longer deny. But he’d seen Clara with Amy, and with Rory, and with other people with whom she was on good terms, and he understood that that was merely her personality: effervescent and light-hearted, grounded in smiles and teasing words that both built up his hopes and shot them down. She flirted with him, and that buoyed John’s confidence and boosted his ego, but she flirted with _everyone_ , which reminded him that he was not special and that brought him back down to earth with a bump.

He gazed up at the _Evening Standard_ article, remembering how it had felt to stand with his arm around Clara’s waist and make her laugh. Natural. Easy. Comfortable. Things he hadn’t felt around any woman in a long time, and, truthfully, things he’d never expected to feel again. Yet there had been a moment when Clara had looked up at him with a wide, exuberant smile and he’d felt his heart stop for an instant, convinced that he saw in her eyes what he’d craved for so long: love. Then she’d giggled and looked away, and he’d chided himself for making mistaken, idiotic assumptions. 

“John?” 

Clara’s voice tore him away from his thoughts, and he blinked as his mind snapped back to the present, finding her stood by his side and smiling.

“Hey,” he said wearily, holding out a hand to her and grinning as she entwined their fingers together. “You were great.”

“Thanks,” she leant against his side, smiling up at the article. “We look pretty damn good together, don’t we?” 

Did she know what she was doing? Did she know what she was saying? 

“We do,” he murmured, breaking apart their hands so that he could settle his arm around her waist, before pressing a kiss to her hair. “That shoot was fun.”

“It was,” she turned towards him, settling her palms against his chest, and he was sure that she would be able to feel his hearts racing under her hands. “We should do some more.” 

 _Fuck it,_ his brain roared loudly. _Kiss her. Kiss her now._  

“We…”

“Good god, will you two stop staring at yourselves?” Missy interrupted, sticking her head back into the office and scowling. “Enough with the narcissism. Home time. Let’s go, chop chop.” 

Clara broke away from John with an unreadable expression, seizing her coat from the rack and pulling the damp garment back on. “Why don’t we have some fun?” she asked, tipping him a wink that rendered him both intrigued and concerned at once. “Leave the building holding hands?” 

“Sure,” he agreed, his mouth racing ahead of his brain. “Why not?” 

Grinning, Clara slipped her hand into his, and then danced out to the corridor, dragging John behind her.

“What in hell’s name are you up to?” Missy asked, irritated, casting a filthy look down at their entwined fingers. “Holding hands?”

“Messing with anyone loitering,” Clara explained, as John nodded mutely in agreement. “Like _you_ wouldn’t do it.” 

“Well,” Missy said through gritted teeth. “Any publicity is good publicity.”

“What she said,” Amy added, smiling at the pair of them benignly. “To the Tube?” 

“To the Tube,” Clara concurred. 

John was hyperaware of how his fingers were meshed through Clara’s as they headed down the corridors of the building towards reception, and he fought to keep his breathing steady as she led them past colleagues and acquaintances, before heading outside into the biting February air.

A flash went off in his face, and he wanted to pull away from Clara, but she only laughed and tugged him towards the Underground, caring little for the grinning photographer who was already slipping away into the night.

“Clara-” John tried to protest, but she only smiled. 

“Shush,” she instructed. “Any publicity is good publicity.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd told themselves that any publicity was good publicity, but have John and Clara made a huge mistake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, let's see how the two of them holding hands is going...!

“’Any publicity is good publicity,’” John said cattily from his seat at Clara’s kitchen table, newspaper clippings strewn across the plasticky, wipe-clean tablecloth. “Wasn’t that what you said?”

“That was what Missy said, actually,” Clara shot back without turning around from her position at the sink, where she was steadily working her way through a monster pile of washing up. She picked up a tea-stained mug and dunked it in the water, scrubbing at it as she continued: “I was really only echoing her words to avoid getting fired. Or worse.” 

“This is a load of bollocks,” John informed her, picking up a nearby article and scowling at it. “’John Smith and his dashing young co-presenter have been witnessed having coffee together frequently at local coffee shops. While we’re all for shopping local, might we suggest that John sticks to Scots women, and leaves lovely English lasses for the English?’ That’s both racist _and_ sexist.”

“Didn’t know I was a commodity,” Clara deadpanned. “How much did you buy me for?”

“It’s not fucking funny!” John exploded, and Clara dropped the mug she was holding into the sink with a crash. “It’s not fucking funny that everyone thinks I’m a dirty old creep!” 

“Nobody thinks that you’re a creep, John,” Clara said with maddening calmness, groping around in the washing up bowl for shards of pottery. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“ _The Daily Mirror_ literally describes me as a cradle-snatcher, and reminds me that I’m old enough to be your father.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t even wipe my arse with _The Daily Mirror._ ”

“That’s not the point!” he shouted, losing his temper. “The point is, people don’t think we’re cute, they think we’re weird. They think I’m fucking you, and it’s not appropriate! You come out of this looking just as bad as I do, so stop fucking standing there and looking all self-righteous and telling me how everything is fine when they’re calling you a golddigger!” 

“Does that bother you more than them calling you a creep?” Clara asked, and John wondered how she was keeping her temper. “Because it shouldn’t.” 

“Of course it bothers me! They’re calling you names!” 

“They’re calling _you_ names!” 

“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” he protested angrily. “It’s nothing I can’t ignore. You, on the other hand… well, I think we need to jack this shit in.” 

“ _What_ shit?” Clara turned to face him, her eyes wide and afraid. “The show?” 

“No!” 

“What, then?” 

“The flirting.” 

“I do not flirt with you.” 

“You do, you-” John noticed Clara’s hand and felt a stab of concern. “Clara, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” 

He gestured at the crimson liquid dripping onto the linoleum. “Broken mugs and shouting make for a bad combination, apparently.”

“Well, you fucking started it,” she snapped, seizing a dubiously clean tea towel and wrapping it around her palm. “You started bloody shouting for no reason.” 

“Well, I think I have a reason!”

“Not in my flat!” she shouted back, her composure finally slipping. “Not in my goddamn flat where the neighbours can hear every word and are probably ringing up _The Daily Mail_ as we speak to sell the juicy details on how we’re having a domestic!” 

“Well, where else would you like to argue? The street? Oh yeah, great idea, let’s get videoed having a row. That’ll do so much for our public image.”

“Your public image is already fucked,” Clara said snidely. “So, we don’t have to worry about that. I know, what about your place? Big old Victorian mansion. I bet it’s nice and soundproof.”

“You’re not coming to my place.” 

“Why the fuck not?”

“You _know_ why not.” 

“No, I don’t,” Clara narrowed her eyes at him warningly. “Do share.”

“It’s River’s house!”

“Oh, right, and I forgot that your dead wife takes precedence over your living friends,” Clara spat, before clamping her hand over her mouth and looking guilty. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. John…” 

John got to his feet in silence, his anger settling over him as he scowled down at his tiny co-presenter who was now attempting to scowl up at him in defiance. “Fuck you,” he snarled. “Fuck you, and fuck this whole damn thing.” 

He turned on his heel and stalked from the flat before Clara could say another word, pulling on his jacket and stuffing his hands into his pockets as he descended the stairs. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was heading, other than away from Clara, but, as he reached the cracked tarmac of the car park, he found himself subconsciously orienting himself towards the Thames, and allowed his feet to begin the familiar path. He’d walked this route the week before, Clara giddy on his arm in a ludicrously impractical, brightly coloured summer dress that seemed entirely out of touch with the mid-March weather, but it had matched her enthusiastic mood as she talked about the success of their show. In the six weeks since they’d been on air, their listenership had increased exponentially, and Raz had taken to sending them long, congratulatory emails at the end of every week, waxing lyrical about the “golden duo” and what their success would mean for Radio TARDIS. 

Well, fuck that. Fuck the whole damn thing, because now the papers had got hold of John and Clara, they would never let up, and he wasn’t content to be their plaything and stand by as they branded Clara with the kind of names that they typically reserved for talentless reality stars. The names they called him – well, they were far from complimentary, but he’d weathered far more severe storms than a few names and some bad press. But he needed to protect Clara; he had a duty of care to do so. Sure, it was all a joke to her for now, and she found it diverting – amusing, even – but she had no idea of what the media could do to people, or how quickly they could turn public opinion against someone. If the press wanted to brand her a golddigger, it would not be long until the public began to do the same, and Clara would find herself reviled. She might even lose her teaching job. Well, that would never come to pass. They would stop flirting. They would stop being photographed together. They- 

John caught sight of a paparazzo out of the corner of his eye, and he turned towards the young man with a snarl. “What do you want?” he growled. “Got no one better to photograph? Haven’t any members of One Direction impregnated anyone recently?” 

“Where’s-” 

But before the photographer could finish asking the inevitable question, his attention was diverted to something behind John, who turned around to take in the sight of Clara, still dressed in her casual clothes and chasing after him in her Uggs. “John!” she called, and he realised with horror that she was still clutching the bloodstained tea towel to her hand. “John, wait!” 

“Clara…” he tried to say, gesturing to the paparazzo, who announced his intentions by taking a photograph of Clara. “Not-” 

Before he could offer any further warning, Clara had reached him and flung her arms around his neck, sounding tearful as she mumbled into his neck: “I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t’ve…” 

There was the _click_ of a camera shutter, and John’s hands alighted on the small of Clara’s back for a moment. “Clara, we can resume this discussion in thirty seconds, I just have to take care of something first.” 

Confusion flickered over her expression as he pulled away and seized the photographer by the front of his shirt, hauling him upwards and scowling as menacingly as possible. “Give me your camera,” he said calmly. “Now.” 

“Not a fucking chance!” the young man protested, squirming in an attempt to get away, but John only grinned wolfishly. 

“That wasn’t a suggestion, that was an order,” he said, letting go of the lad and seizing his fancy camera. Popping open the bottom as the photographer staggered backwards, he took out the memory card, dropped it to his feet and smashed it under the heel of his boot. “Whoops.” 

“What the _fuck,_ dude?!” the youngster protested furiously. “That’s criminal damage! You’re out of your fucking mind, I’ll fucking have you for this!”

John took out his wallet and removed five twenty-pound notes, tucking them into the photographer’s top pocket. “No son,” he said. “I don’t think you will. I think you’ll be leaving myself and the lady alone, and not telling anyone about this.” 

“My fucking-”

“That money is enough for a new memory card,” John handed back the camera with a flourish. “And your camera is undamaged. Jog on, pal.”

“You fucking lunatic.”

“John,” Clara protested lamely, as he stepped forward and raised a fist. “John, leave it.” 

He looked over at her, clad only in a thin sweatshirt and joggers, and shivering profusely, fear in her eyes. “But…”

“ _Please_.” 

“Fine,” he stepped back and dusted the youth off with a wide, fake smile. “Get lost.” 

The photographer looked between the two of them, then turned around and set off at a brisk jog towards the nearest bus stop. 

“John, I’m sorry-” Clara began again, but he put his finger on his lips, shucking off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders, before wrapping his arm around her waist and beginning to walk back towards her flat. “John…”

“Wait until we’re back,” he said quietly. “I’m not doing this in public, it’s already a nightmare.” 

Clara fell obediently and uncharacteristically quiet as they headed back up to her flat, only speaking again when the front door had swung shut behind them. 

“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was wrong to mention River, and I’m sorry. I’ll stop flirting with you. I’ll stop everything. Thank you for getting rid of that stupid photographer.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” he replied tiredly, his anger now long gone. “You don’t have to stop flirting. I’m not sure you _can_.” 

“Well, I’ll try,” she said in a small voice. “OK?” 

“Clara, we just… I think we need to be careful. That doesn’t mean not flirt. It means maybe get photographed together less, and stop playing games with photographers. I don’t want you to get hurt, in any way.” 

“Already bleeding.” 

He winced. “Don’t. I have a duty of care.”

“I’ve had experience of dealing with the press when they get nasty. You haven’t. I don’t want you to have to go through some of the shit I had to go through.” 

“You’re a good man,” Clara smiled up at him. “But a soppy one. Honestly, I can cope.” 

“I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be.” 

“Well, I am,” he shrugged. “I’m sorry I shouted. Just… you’re one of the only good things in my life, and I won’t have the press corrupt that.” 

“Am I really?” she asked, looking up at him with her lips slightly parted in shock. “One of the only good things?” 

“Urm,” he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, discomfited by the look she was giving him. “Yeah, actually. Possibly _the_ only good thing.” 

To his considerable surprise, Clara burst into tears.

“Hey!” he said at once, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her forehead. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re just so damn _nice_ ,” she sobbed. “And I feel shitty and awful because I’ve brought all this attention to you and it’s killing you and you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“No,” he said at once, guiding Clara over to the sofa and taking a seat beside her, allowing her to nuzzle into his chest. “No, it’s not, Clara. This isn’t your fault. Not ever.” 

“It _is_.” 

“No, it’s not. You’re a good person, and you make my life better, and the tabloids can frankly fuck off, OK?” 

Clara nodded feebly, resting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. 

“Good. Now, let’s get a plaster for that hand. I’m not sure how sterile that towel is.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is determined to get involved with Amy's wedding planning, but will it prove too much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different... Ft. April, cos I love her.

“Amy, when you announced that you wanted to go wedding dress shopping on April Fool’s Day, I was really hoping that it was a premature April Fool,” Clara raised her eyebrows, looking up at the expensive-looking boutique that Amy had bodily dragged her to via an overpriced, un-air-conditioned Uber. The thought of shopping for dresses somehow managed to seem both appealing and appalling, but Clara tried to muster a degree of enthusiasm for her friend’s benefit. “I see I was mistaken.” 

“I never joke about shopping,” Amy said with the utmost seriousness, taking Clara’s hand and dragging her inside the shop, where her mother was perched on a grey-upholstered sofa, beaming from ear to ear and looking somewhat tearful. Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, Tabetha,” Clara mumbled, letting go of Amy’s hand and forcing a smile. “Safe trip?” 

“Hi, loves,” the middle-aged woman got to her feet and embraced first her daughter, then Clara, who she grinned at fondly. “Not bad, thanks. You’ve got better manners than my Amelia; at least you asked.” 

“Mum, I’m here to shop.” 

“That’s no excuse for bad manners.” 

Amy rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and her mum poked her tongue out at her in response. “If you say so.”

An assistant approached the trio, and Clara smiled as she realised the girl was one of her students. April MacLean was potentially one of the most empathetic, helpful people she’d ever met, and Clara realised that she was the perfect person to help women find their dream dresses. “Hi, April.” 

“Hi, Miss Oswald!” the girl smiled, looking between the three women and visibly fizzing with enthusiasm. “Can I help you?”

“This is Amy, my best friend,” Clara nodded towards her flatmate. “She’s got an appointment. At least I presume she does. Amy, do you?” 

“Obviously,” Amy clicked her tongue then looked a smidge guilty. “…not.” 

“Well, that’s fine!” April said brightly, gesturing around at the otherwise-empty shop. “People generally don’t really favour April Fool’s Day for making big life decisions, so I’m all yours. When’s the wedding?”

“We don’t actually have a date yet,” Amy admitted, as Clara wandered off a short distance to look at a wall of framed photos of happy brides, feeling a small stab of envy as she surveyed their smiling faces. “I just wanted to get ahead of the game, dress-wise, because it’s the fun bit, and it also seemed like the kind of thing I need to do well in advance.” 

April laughed. “Too right. What kind of thing are you looking for?”

“Something quite classic, I think. Nothing poofy and huge, because I’ll look like a meringue, and I’m not really enthusiastic about that as a general rule of thumb. I would like to avoid meringueyness.”

Clara turned and raised an eyebrow. “Amy, you would look like a really amazing meringue. Don’t even lie.” 

“Hush, you.” 

“Why are you even _buying_ a dress?” Clara asked, narrowing her eyes. “I’m sure you could wrangle one for free from a designer.”

“That’s a good idea,” Tabetha interjected in a helpful tone. “You could get something really lovely.” 

“Are you just saying that so you don’t have to buy me one?” Amy asked suspiciously, looking down at her mother with an unimpressed expression.

“Maybe.”

“Mum!” 

“Well!” Amy’s mother flung her hands in the air. “What’s the point of being a model if you can’t occasionally procure free clothes?” 

“Oh!” April exclaimed, looking at Amy with the kind of wonder that people usually surveyed models with. “Oh, you’re Amy Pond!” 

“That’s me.” 

“You advertise _Petrichor_!” 

“I do,” Amy smiled kindly. “But I’m trying to get into radio now, with the help of my tiny English teacher friend over there.” 

“Oh! Do you work with Miss Oswald on her show?” 

“Now,” Clara turned back to the small group of women, feeling uncomfortable with the show being attributed solely to her. “It’s really _John’s_ show.” 

“Clara, don’t be an idiot. It’s your show as well.” 

“Amy-” 

“Well, whoever’s show it is, I really like it,” April said earnestly. “I listen to it every day, the music is great. Do you want to have a browse while I fetch you all a glass of champagne?” 

“That sounds _ideal_ ,” Amy grinned at the prospect of free alcohol. “Thanks, April.” 

The girl visibly glowed, and disappeared into a back room. 

“Amy, are you sure you don’t want something princessy?” Tabetha asked, approaching the racks of dresses and eyeing a full-skirted one longingly. “That would look lovely on you, darling.” 

“Mum, I’m definitely sure. I want to be able to fit down the aisle.” 

“But-” 

“Mum, it’s a no. One hundred percent no.” 

“Fine,” her mother muttered sulkily. “No ball-gowns, then.”

Clara took a couple of hesitant steps towards a row of satin dresses, running her palm over the smooth fabric. “What about A-line?” she asked, determined to contribute to the conversation in some way. “That might be nice.” 

“That works for me,” Amy pulled a dress from a nearby rack, grimaced, and hung it back up. “Just not _net._ Or lace.” 

“Well, that’s every dress ever made in the last two years out,” Clara observed. “Which is great.”

“Don’t sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking!”

“I’m only teasing,” Amy laughed. “We’ll find something, Oswald, don’t you worry.” 

“Here we go: champagne,” April said, reappearing with a silver tray on which sat three flutes of golden liquid and a bowl of strawberries. “And the strawberries are because… well, just because.” 

“That’s really nice of you, April, thanks,” Clara smiled and took her glass, perching on the sofa in the middle of the room and taking a sip of her drink. “Are you old enough to be serving alcohol, though?” 

“Yes,” April lied, looking panicked. “I mean, no, but… Please, Miss, don’t get me in any trouble, I really like this job-”

“April, it’s alright,” Clara assured her. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything.” 

April visibly relaxed, and Tabetha joined Clara on the sofa. “Thanks Miss. I… urm, we should probably start looking at dresses. Miss Pond, have you seen anything you like?” 

“Oh, my god. Please don’t call me that, it makes me feel old,” Amy made a face, then shot a guilty look at Clara. “No offence, Clara.” 

“Some taken.” 

“’Amy’s fine,” her friend assured April. “I was thinking something that’s both sort of… classic and yet unique? I don’t want to look like everyone else on their wedding day. I want something a bit different.” 

Clara tried to pay attention as April and Amy launched into an in-depth discussion of the merits of different lengths and fabrics and styles, but she found her attention wandering as the conversation progressed. She wondered what it would be like if _she_ were the one getting married; how it would feel to be the centre of attention as she tried on beautiful dresses and discussed her fiancé in a rapt, adoring voice in the same way that Amy did. Her heart ached at the thought of it, and she wasn’t aware she was crying until Tabetha leant over and placed a tissue in her hand, snapping her attention back to the present. April and Amy were mercifully out of sight in a cubicle, and Tabetha was smiling at her understandingly. 

“Danny?” she asked in a quiet voice, and Clara nodded, grateful that her friend’s mother understood. “He was a good man.”

“Yeah, he was. Sorry, though, I shouldn’t be… it’s Amy’s day, I shouldn’t get all mopey.” 

“It’s alright, love,” Tabetha patted her hand. “Amy was worried about inviting you, you know. She didn’t want you to get upset, but she’ll understand, it’s alright.” 

“What?” 

“She phoned me last night in a right old state.”

“Oh, god, I didn’t mean to… hell,” Clara mopped at her eyes, feeling guilty. “Sorry.” 

“No, love, don’t apologise. She was worried about upsetting you, is all,” Tabetha sighed ruefully. “And truth be told, I think she’s a little upset, too. She always thought Mels would be at her wedding, and then… well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Clara murmured. “I do.” 

“It’s difficult, I know. Weddings are reminders of the ones we’ve lost.” 

Clara thought of Danny, and her mother, and Mels. “They are.” 

Amy stepped out of the cubicle before either woman could say anything else, dressed in a long, flowing gown appliquéd with small flowers. Clara’s breath caught in her throat, and she started crying again, realising that Tabetha had dissolved into tears as well. 

“I really, really hope that’s good crying,” Amy teased. “And not because I look bloody hideous.”

“You look…” Tabetha managed, dabbing at her eyes. “S-so b-beautiful, darling, I’m so proud of you.” 

Amy rolled her eyes dismissively, but Clara could tell she was touched. “Clara?” 

“You look incredible,” she said honestly. “That dress is perfect.” 

“Thanks,” Amy smiled, shaking out the skirt and giving a little twirl. “I really like it.” 

The bell above the door jingled, and Clara looked around and felt her heart lurch. John stepped into the boutique, clad head-to-toe in black despite the sunny weather, and wearing a pair of sunglasses that Clara was fairly sure were older than she was. “Well,” he said with an easy grin, “is this a bride I see before me?” 

Amy snorted. “Oh, my god, you did not just paraphrase _Macbeth_ at me.” 

“Ach, what can I say?” John took off his sunglasses and winked at Amy. “You look nice.” 

Clara realised that Tabetha was blinking at John in confusion. “Oh, right, introductions. Tabetha, this is John Smith. My co-presenter, and Amy’s boss. John, this is Amy’s mum, Tabetha. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I happened to be in the area. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Pond,” he said, his eyes alighting on her for a second before fixing on Clara. “What’s with the tears?” 

“Women cry when wedding dress shopping,” she said, trying to sound dismissive. “That’s all.” 

“Clara,” Amy said with maddening kindness. “It’s alright, you don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not-”

Amy gave her a long look. “This is definitely _the_ dress. Dress shopping: done. If you want to go and have coffee with John or whatever and think about Danny, that’s alright by me, OK?” 

“But-”

“Clara,” Amy crossed the room to her and took her hands in her own. “You’re doing better than I thought, but you need time to be sad, and I will be squealing about this for several hours. So, going and ruminating with John is a good idea. That’s an order. That’s why I texted him.” 

“I thought it was because you wanted to meet for coffee and a chat about work! Then I find out that you’ve lured me to a wedding dress shop… I can’t steal her from you,” John protested. “You’re having… girl time.” 

“John, you make her smile. So, take her for coffee, and I’ll see you both at work later.” 

Clara got to her feet unwillingly, touched by Amy’s gesture. “I love you, I’ve mentioned that, right?” 

“Yep,” Amy tipped her a wink. “Not usually in public, though.” 

“And you really do look beautiful.” 

“Thank you, babe.”

“I’ll see you at work,” Clara told, then looked over to John with a shy smile. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he replied, looking somewhat perplexed by Amy’s machinations. “Coffee?”

“Sounds good,” Clara linked her arm through his, and cast a last look over her shoulder. “April, see you Monday. Tabetha, see you soon. Amy… well, until later.” 

She stepped outside before any of them could reply, and the pair of them made it halfway down the road before John spoke. 

“Do I really?” he asked, in a surprised tone. 

“Do you really what?” 

“Make you smile.” 

“Of course you do, idiot,” Clara nudged him playfully. “It’s one of your many abilities.” 

“Oh,” he said, putting his sunglasses back on and looking suddenly bashful. “That’s… good. I like making you smile.” 

“Good, because I like you making me smile,” she assured him in a bright tone. “Are we going for coffee? Or ice cream? It’s boiling, I doubt Amy took that into account when she was scheming.” 

“Yes, it is,” he grimaced, gesturing to his all-black ensemble. “Poor outfit choice on my part today.” 

“Just a little.” 

“Ice cream sounds like a good idea, definitely,” he decided. “And I can strip slightly.” 

“Steady on.” 

“Hush. You’re supposed to be ruminating, aren’t you?” 

“I know,” Clara sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. “But I don’t feel sad when I’m with you.” 

John stopped walking and looked at her in stupefaction, and Clara realised that she may have said something wrong. “Clara…” 

“I mean,” she began, laughing nervously. “Because you’re my friend and you make me laugh and so I don’t have time to feel sad about things.” 

“Right,” he said in a reassured tone. “Right. Now, ice cream. Are we thinking chocolate, or strawberry?” 

“Are you paying?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Well, in that case, I’m thinking sundaes.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives devastating news from Missy: there's been a betrayal. But worse than that, a betrayal by the only person left who he trusts. Clara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the angst, kids.

John was still half-asleep, slotting a capsule into his coffee maker, when the knock at the door came. Anticipating the postman – at best – or a hardcore fan – at worst – he answered with a sense of trepidation, and was surprised to discover Missy stood on his doorstep, holding aloft a newspaper which she immediately hit him about the head with several times.

“ _Ow!_ ” he protested, backing away from her and holding up his arms defensively, as she continued beating him with the improvised weapon. “What the hell, Missy?”

“You _idiot,_ ” she seethed, hitting him in the face with the rolled-up paper and narrowly missing his eye. “You complete _fool_.”

“Stop bloody hitting me, Jesus Christ!” he shoved her away and seized the newspaper, unrolling it and slamming the front door behind his producer. “Why are you attacking me with _The Sun_? Am I vitamin-D deficient? Is this a really shit pun?” 

“Page five,” she spat, her face a mask of fury, and he felt a pang of fear. “I hope you’re happy.” 

John forced himself to roll his eyes and feign nonchalance, heading into the kitchen with the tabloid tucked under his arm. Anything to prolong finding out what had invoked Missy’s rage. “How about, before I do that, I make us both coffee?” 

“How about you _read the damn article_?” 

John felt a swooping sense of terror as he registered the urgency in her tone, and he laid the paper down on a worktop, turning to page five and feeling his stomach drop and the room lurch around him as he gazed down at the gleeful, gloating headline that dominated most of the page, accompanied by a large paparazzi photo of himself and Clara from some weeks prior. 

 _Sun Exclusive: Clara Oswald dishes the dirt on her fling with aging rock DJ._  

“OK,” he said with a calmness that surprised even him. He tried to reassure himself that whatever the article contained, it would be a load of crap. “We haven’t had a fling.” 

“Apparently, you have,” Missy said scathingly, gesturing to the paper and looking disgusted. “Apparently, you had sex in the studio.” 

“Seems unhygienic,” John said, although his heart was racing and his palms felt sweaty. Would Clara do this to him? This had to be a bluff on _The Sun’s_ part. She wasn’t foolish enough to tell the tabloids anything about their friendship. “Anything else?”

“Read the damn article!” 

John turned his attention to the text underneath the headline, squinting at a second, smaller, grainier photo of Clara that accompanied the piece, in which she looked distinctly smug. 

 _Clara Oswald, 30, has spoken exclusively to_ The Sun _about her relationship with John Smith, her co-presenter, who at 58 is almost double her age, but refuses to let that stop him from letting his hair down. She’s revealed their wild nights out, boozy parties, and bedroom exploits that would make even the most daring couples blush._  

“Urm, I don’t drink.” 

“Well, apparently you do now. Who knew?” 

_Speaking to our reporter, Clara divulged that she’s been enjoying the benefits that come from dating John Smith: namely the six-figure salary that Radio TARDIS are paying her, the celebrity that comes with being his lover, and a lucrative advertising contract with music retailer iTunes. “And the sex,” she adds, grinning wickedly. “He goes pretty hard for an older man.”_

“What the _fuck_?” John spat, almost amused by litany of incorrect facts. “This is all… this is crap. She wouldn’t say any of this, they’ve made the whole thing up.”

In grim silence, Missy passed him her phone, which was open to a tweet containing a photo of a man John recognised as the photographer from two weeks ago, who was stood grinning with someone who was definitely, irrefutably Clara. _Cliff Dunlop loved meeting the Impossible Girl for a chat!_ the caption read, and John threw the phone back to Missy with a snarl, feeling his world fall apart. Clara had sold him out. Clara had gone to the media, and made up lies, and thrown him under a bus for the attention and fame that his name could bring her. His chest ached, and the anger in his stomach burned hotter with each passing minute, countered with the last glimmer of hope he had left: denial.

“No. She wouldn’t… they’ve faked it somehow. This is revenge – that bastard… he took a photo of us…”

“Oh, I know,” Missy said sweetly, but her eyes were as cold as ice. “That’s all in the article, keep reading.” 

John scanned the paragraphs until he found a mention of their altercation. 

Sun _reporter Cliff Dunlop had a run-in with the pair of them recently, which culminated with a bloodied Oswald being embraced by Smith as he threatened him with physical violence, before he took Dunlop’s camera and destroyed his memory card, costing him thousands of pounds of lost earnings._  

“Did you do that?” Missy asked, her tone flat. “Destroy his SD card?” 

“Yes!” John admitted, feeling ashamed. “But he deserved it! Clara and I had a row and I walked out… he was taking photos of us and I didn’t want him to publish them.”

“Why was she bloodied?” 

John caught the look in her eyes and understood what she was implying, feeling a sickening sense of revulsion that she would even consider him capable of that. “Jesus. _Jesus,_ Missy, I can’t believe you’d… I didn’t touch her! I never would!” 

“You tried to slap me!” 

“And I regret it!” John shot back, putting his head in his hands and continuing in a small voice. “She cut her hand on a broken mug. It’s the _Sun,_ you know what they’re like! They’ve framed it to sound like I knocked her about – _which I didn’t._ ” 

“According to her, you’re ‘tempestuous and prone to fits of passionate jealousy.’” 

“Good to know.” 

“John, she’s sold you down the fucking river.” 

“I know,” he snarled. “Goddamn it, I know. OK? The bitch sold me out. Just like you predicted. Just like you wanted to happen.”

“I never _wanted_ this, John.” 

“No, but you took great pleasure in telling me what was going to happen. You enjoyed telling me what a bitch she was, and warning me to stay away from her. I should’ve bloody listened. I should’ve never let her on the damn show, because now… Jesus, I can’t sit in a studio with her now, the vicious little bitch.”

“I know,” Missy said, and she sounded almost concerned. “I know, John. What do you want me to do? Lawyers?”

“Lawyers are a good idea, yeah.”

“Suing her?” 

“Suing the bitch down the river, yep.” 

“Firing her?” 

“I don’t care what you have to do, just get her the fuck out of my studio and the fuck off of my show.” 

“John…”

“What?” he looked up at Missy with furious tears in his eyes. “That’s enough for now. Go. Go on. Go and get on with getting that bitch out of my life, and go and gloat to someone who isn’t me, because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you were right, and I shouldn’t have trusted her. Do you understand?” 

“John, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Go and deal with the backstabbing little cow, OK?” 

Missy hesitated for half a beat then nodded, slipping from the kitchen in silence, and John heard the front door close behind her. When he was entirely sure she was gone, he screwed the paper into a ball, loathing the sight of himself trotting along at Clara’s side like a lovesick puppy. Loathing how trusting he had been, letting her into his life and his place of work and his heart, only for her to pull the rug out from underneath him and stab him in the back. How could she do this to him? Only the day before she’d been laughing at his side, touching his hand, and flirting with him. Had she known then? Had she done it then? Had she sat down with this bastard from the _Sun_ and made up these disgusting lies when she’d been teasing him about eloping? How much had they paid her? How much had they offered her to spill her soul and make up this poison? Was it worth more than his friendship and his compassion? 

Because he’d given Clara everything. He’d put his job on the line for her, and endured smear campaign after smear campaign. He’d chanced it all to help her – to ensure that she would never suffer in the same way he had. And this was how she repaid him. Catty comments and outright lies in a newspaper that she had so often disavowed, all for what? A few hundred pounds? A few thousand? However much they considered her words to be worth; however much the _Sun’s_ lackeys valued her ability to discredit John completely. He could see them all now, laughing in their boardroom, content that they had finally been able to destroy him. Poor, deluded John Smith – he had been dating such a young, pretty woman, and now she had shown her true colours and revealed that she’d been taking him for a ride. It wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter to the tabloid press, or to the general public. It was the kind of narrative they bought into, contributed to by the rumours that Clara and John had fed so eagerly and with so much good humour. Damn his past self. Damn Clara’s past self. She had known what she was doing, even then – her intentions must have been set in stone from their first meeting for coffee. She had played him for a fool, and he would not care were it not for the fact that… well, he loved her. That much he was almost certain of. He loved her, and now she would destroy him.

His hands shook as he sunk to the kitchen floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and feeling a familiar burn in the back of his throat. He had been sober for seven years, and he had envisaged remaining so for the remainder of his feeble little life, but now, as the pain of Clara’s betrayal tore at his chest, he saw little point to ignoring the voices of his demons. He would damn well indulge them, and if they drove him into an early grave then so much the better. An early grave held the hope of being reunited with River, and she, at least, had never betrayed him as unforgivably as Clara had. 

He got to his feet, seizing his wallet and keys from the side, weighing them up in his hands. Sobriety and suffering? Or inebriation and inertia?

The choice was simple, and his feet carried him the short distance down the road to the off-licence before he could listen to reason. One bottle of Scotch. A four-pack of lager. And then – fuck it, old time’s sake – a bottle of Buckfast, because if he was going to go to hell, he might as well go all-out. Dumping the lot on the counter, he thumbed through his wallet, aware of the shopkeeper’s lingering, baleful stare. 

“Been a while, John,” he said gruffly, then caught John’s filthy look and coughed. “That’s £26.60.”

John slapped three tenners down on the counter, shuffling impatiently as his items were bagged. “Keep the change,” he mumbled, snatching the plastic bag and heading home before he could be engaged in any further conversation. 

Reaching the haven of his kitchen once more, he brushed the crumpled tabloid onto the floor and freed a can of lager from its plastic trappings, weighing up the consequences in his mind one final time.

Sobriety and suffering.

Inebriation and inertia.

_Well, if Clara wants to destroy me, she’ll damn well succeed. I’ll make sure of that. If she’s striving for perfectionism, I can be the perfect mess._

He cracked open the can and took a long swig, cursing Clara Oswald to hell and back as the bubbles burst on his tongue. He gulped back the first half, then had to stop to breathe, wiping his mouth on his hand. 

From across the room, John saw his phone light up, and he scowled at the damn thing, crossing to where it was docked and snatching it up.

**Clara Oswald:** _John, I need to talk to you. Urgently._

He snorted, taking another long swig of his lager. She wanted to talk? Fine, he would talk. Let her see what she’d done to him.

He stumbled towards the front door, seizing the rest of the four-pack on the way. _Clara Oswald,_ he thought to himself bitterly. _I’m damn well coming for you._


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A furious John confronts Clara, but is all as it seems?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger, y'all! Here's some more angst for you.

Clara was curled up on the sofa, crying, when the doorbell rang. Piling a couple of trashy magazines on top of that day’s copy of _The Sun,_ she got to her feet and walked to the hall with a growing sense of apprehension, wondering who could be calling on her in the middle of the day. The bell continued to ring unceasingly as approached the front door, and she prayed to god that it wasn’t an obnoxious journalist or neighbour come to be caustic about _that_ article. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to cope with that, not after the morning she’d had.

“OK!” she called, her voice thick with tears, and she cursed herself, clearing her throat. “I’m coming, bloody hell, cool it with the bell-ringing.”

She swiped her sleeve over her eyes in attempt to regain a modicum of composure and then yanked the door open, startled to find John stood on the doorstep. Well… slumped, one arm propping his weight up as he blinked at her blearily, and –

“Oh, my god. Are you drunk? John, what the fuck?” 

Clara felt the bottom fall out of her world as she took in the depleted four-pack clutched in his hands, coupled with his bloodshot eyes and his unsteady body language. He was drinking again. He was here, and he was drunk, and it was her fault. Years of sobriety, destroyed in an instant by an article and two photographs. Her stomach lurched, and she was worried for one awful moment that she might be sick. 

“Maybeeeeee,” he slurred, dropping two empty cans on her doorstep and swaying unsteadily. That decided the matter: she needed to look after him, so there was no time for being sick. She reached for his arm to steady him, then thought better of it. “But ye fuckin’ deserve it.” 

“John, listen, just let me explain, OK? About the article. About everything.” 

“Why t’fuck should I?” he asked accusatorily, jabbing a finger at her chest and almost losing his balance. “Wha’ the fuck is wrong with ye?” 

“John, please. You need to hear me out…”

John barged past her and stormed into the lounge, looking around with narrowed eyes. “Where’s t’Scottish one?”

“She’s out at an interview for her book. John, _please_ , can you just listen to me?” 

“Why t’fuck should I have to listen to yer whiny lil English voice yipping in ma ear? Ye’ve already talked enough, ye wee lil tart.” 

“John, for god _sake,_ just… sit down, and I’ll get you some coffee. You need to sober up.” 

“Don’t wanna be sober.” 

“Why the hell are you drinking?” she looked over at him with concern, hating herself for inadvertently causing this. “John, this isn’t like you.” 

“An’ bein’ a lil slut an’ sellin’ me out to the damn _Sun_ isn’t much like you, sweetheart, yet here we are.” 

“John, I didn’t…” she closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry in front of him. “John, I didn’t sell you out.” 

“So ye aren’t gonna deny it?”

“Of course I’m denying it!” she snapped, then softened. “Not that you’ll believe me.” 

“I dinnae believe you. Missy was right about you.” 

“For fuck sake, John. You’re pissed as a newt, and you’re being unreasonable. I’m getting you a glass of water.” 

John looked her in the eye, and without breaking her gaze, cracked open his last can of lager and took a gulp, arching an eyebrow as if to say _go on then_. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Jesus wept,” she muttered, heading into the kitchen and filling a glass of water from the tap. “Idiotic man.”

“What did ye say?” he said aggressively from behind her, and she jumped, spilling half the contents of the cup over herself as she turned to face him. “Ach, I’m sorry. You were mean’ to drop it an’ wound yerself. Then ye could tell the _Sun_ I’ve been beating ye. Get some more money out o’ them.” 

“John, I didn’t do that.” 

“Ye would say that. Tart.” 

“Can you stop using pejorative language?” 

“Bitch.” 

“John.” 

“Cu-”

“That’s _enough_ of that,” she said sharply, and he rolled his eyes, but fell silent. “Can you just fucking _listen_ to me?” 

“No!” 

Clara threw the remains of the glass of water in his face, and he blinked at her in stupefaction, lost for words momentarily. As the liquid dripped onto his shirt, he found his voice again and asked loudly: “T’fuck was that for?” 

“Being a drunken idiot. _Listen to me_!” 

“Fine,” he scowled, leaning back on the counter and taking another swig of lager, which Clara was fairly certain he was only doing to annoy her. “Talk, lass.” 

“Why do you get so Scottish when you’re drunk?” Clara asked, half trying to stall having to address the issue, half genuinely curious. 

“No’ a clue.”

“Also…” Clara wrinkled her nose, nodding at the lager can. “Fosters?”

“Who t’fuck are you to criticise my choice o’ poison?” 

“Someone who thinks you shouldn’t be drinking at all, but if you really insist on falling off the wagon, could you not have chosen something slightly more classy? Or Scottish?” 

“It’s this or Buckfast.” 

“Christ.” 

“I ken.”

Clara met his gaze and they both burst into hysterical laughter, the sheer ludicrousness of the situation hitting them: two friends, fighting like enemies as one drank cheap lager before noon and the other fought to keep from falling apart. How things had degenerated to this, Clara had a strong suspicion, but at that precise moment in time, the whole sorry affair seemed so bizarre that it was funny, and the two of them laughed for a solid few minutes, tears of mirth rolling down their cheeks. When they were both wheezing for breath, their laughter died down, and Clara leaned back against the counter, wiping her cheeks and affixing John with a serious expression.

“I didn’t do it,” she said, still breathless from the laughter but needing to convey the truth of the matter to John. “I didn’t talk to the _Sun_.” 

“Well their damn… Twatter or whatever it is, tha’ was ye, no?” 

“What? I wouldn’t speak to anyone who worked for the _Sun_. Not even if they and I were the only people left on this planet. Scum of the earth, the lot of them.” 

“Well, who t’fuck did?”

“Can you stop swearing?”

“Get t’fuck.” 

“Apparently not,” Clara rolled her eyes. “John, look… you’re not gonna believe me-” 

“Ye’d be right.” 

“For god sake, will you _stop_? I have a cousin, OK? My mum’s side. Her name’s Bonnie, she’s about two months younger than I am.”

“S’a good Scottish name.”

“It is, but that’s not the point. The point is that for whatever reason – genetics, dumb luck, Blackpudlian water, who knows – we’re alike. Very much alike.”

“Both tarts?” 

“In _looks_ ,” Clara scowled. “Our mums thought it was a right laugh, used to dress us alike and all of that crap. But then when my mum died… dad married Linda, and my aunt never forgave him for that. I mean, nor did I, but she _really_ never forgave him, and she turned the whole family against us. Bonnie and I had words, before I went to university. Not nice ones either. I also may or may not have also revenge-shagged her boyfriend.” 

“Lovely. I guess ye want me t’think that it was this Bonnie lass who spoke to tha’ shit rag?” 

“I’m assuming so. I looked her up on Facebook, and well… there’s more than a passing resemblance. And she’s in London, apparently. Working for some political organisation with a really silly name.” 

“Righ’.” 

“John, she hates me. This is the kind of thing she’d do for fun.” 

“Still think ye’re talkin’ shite.” 

“Well, you can damn well keep thinking that, John, because I wouldn’t do this! Why the hell do you think I would?!” 

“Well, it’s damn easy t’believe when there’s a lass with yer face talkin’ t’the fuckin’ journalist!” 

“It isn’t me! I wouldn’t say anything like that, and I certainly wouldn’t talk to the goddamn _Sun_!”

“So, I’m not jus’ a name t’youse? I’m no’ just a celeb?”

“No! Jesus Christ, no, I’ve never seen you like that!” 

“Why t’hell are ye workin’ with me?” he asked, and she was surprised to see the anger on his face give way to pain. “Tell me tha’, cos I’m strugglin’.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed, realising she didn’t fully understand herself. She’d got swept up in the adventure of it all, and she couldn’t begin to put into words how she was feeling. “OK? I don’t know.”

“Fame?” 

“No!” 

“Money?” 

“No!” 

“Why then?!” 

“Friendship,” she said honestly, knowing how lame it sounded. “Feeling like I was safe with you.” 

“Bullshit. Tha’ some bullshit.”

“No!” Clara felt her eyes burn with tears. “John, it’s the truth.” 

“I dinnae care. Ye’ve used me.” 

“What?!” 

“I’m no’ a counsellor! I’m no’ here to make ye feel better!” 

“That’s literally why you hunted me down, remember? Like a bloody psychopath? You wanted to help me. You wanted me to be alright.” 

“Ach, but now… now ye’ve taken t’piss. Ye’ve used me to get a good career. Well, I hope people think ill of ye. I hope ye lose yer feckin’ job.” 

“John, what the hell? This isn’t like you, stop saying things like that!” 

“Ach, c’mon. Who’s gonnae want a teacher teachin’ their bairns who writes in the _Sun_ about shaggin’ someone in a back alley? No’ me.”

“That wasn’t me! That didn’t happen!” 

“It dinnae matter. Life’ll all go t’shite for ye.” 

“You sound pleased about that.”

“I am,” he said bitterly, chugging down the rest of his lager. “Ye deserve it. And ye’re fired from ma show.” 

“What?! John, you can’t… you can’t do this! You’re not thinking straight-” 

“Missy is gonnae get the lawyers t’sue the balls off ye.”

“ _It wasn’t me!_ None of this is true, John, you’re drunk, you don’t kn-” 

“Yer a nasty, usin’ piece o’ work.” 

“John…”

“Go t’hell.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the door unsteadily before Clara could stop him, slamming it as he went. Clara stared forlornly at the empty, crushed lager can he’d dropped on the floor, realised it was an apt metaphor for how she was feeling, and picked the damn thing up, throwing it at the wall in a rage. 

Damn Bonnie to hell for this. Damn Bonnie, and damn that bloody paparazzo. If only her father hadn’t married Linda. If only she hadn’t slept with Bonnie’s boyfriend. If only her and John hadn’t fought that day. The list of “if onlys” were endless, and she sank into the kitchen chair John had occupied on the day of their row, and burst into fresh tears. Everything was ruined. She’d made mistake after mistake, and now she was paying the price for the error of her ways. It would all have been bearable if it weren’t for the magnitude of what she had lost: a friend; a second family at Radio TARDIS; a job. 

A love.

She could no longer deny it – could no longer try to pretend that the way the world had stopped spinning when she realised John had relapsed was anything other than platonic concern for a friend. She’d fallen for him, too hard and too fast, but she’d fallen nonetheless, and now she was forced to bear the consequences of her misplaced affections. Forced to watch another love die, because while she knew very little about alcoholism, she was certain that John’s self-destructive tendencies would probably render him hospital-bound in six months, and likely dead in a year. She couldn’t face that. She couldn’t face staying in London and being faced with the inescapable demise of the man she had fallen for, and had condemned to die by virtue of who she was. She was cursed. She was cursed, and Missy had been right about her, and-

Damn, Missy. Missy would come for her – Missy would harangue her until her life wasn’t worth living for causing John to slip up and fall off the wagon. Missy would have words to say about her all-but-signing of John’s death warrant – and that was before the Scotswoman had taken her to court and sued her for all she had. Missy would destroy her, body and soul, and there was no doubt that she would already be on her way over to Clara’s to offer her a verbal lashing, the likes of which Shoreditch had never seen before. And then there would be the school: the headmaster and the board of governors, her colleagues, her students… she would almost definitely be fired. Clara needed to leave. She needed to flee before she was faced with that, and so she headed into her bedroom and began stuffing things haphazardly into a bag: clothes, toothbrush, phone charger, makeup. The essentials, the bare bones of a life, all piled into a deep-blue suitcase that was hastily zipped shut and wheeled into the kitchen behind her, as she scrawled a note for Amy by way of explanation for her absence. 

_Shit hit fan. Missy after me. John drinking. You might be fired. I’m sorry. Clara x_

She sighed, wishing she could say where she was going, but knowing that telling Amy would put her at risk of being interrogated by Missy. Taking a last, lingering look around the kitchen, she headed downstairs and towards the main road, knowing there was only one place she _could_ go.

Home.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing London, Clara heads home in search of comfort. What she actually finds, however, couldn't be further from what she needs...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the amazing ongoing love and support for this fic!

For the majority of the three-hour train journey back to Blackpool, Clara endeavoured to remain inconspicuous and ignored, hunching down in a corner seat, facing the wall, and arranging her jacket as a pillow to shield her face from prying eyes. Just to be on the safe side, she stuck her headphones in and found a loud, aggressive rock playlist on Spotify, so that, even if anyone wanted to speak to her, she wouldn’t be able to hear them. This tactic worked successfully for half an hour, during which time Amy phoned her every two minutes and left increasingly irate voicemails, at which point Clara had to utilise Airplane Mode and swap to her downloaded “Musicals” playlist, which had the advantage of distracting her from her abject panic by allowing her to lip-sync along with the lyrics. If doing so made her look crazy, then so be it; at least no one would approach her and try to engage her in conversation. 

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, for she wasn’t sure how civil she could’ve been to the inspector – her ticket wasn’t checked for the duration of the journey. _Eighty quid down the drain,_ she thought to herself with a stab of irritation. _Eighty quid that I’m probably going to damn well need once I’ve been fired from Coal Hill._

Her sour mood only furthered when she reached Blackpool and found that her usual bus – from the days when she’d lived here, or come home often – had been cancelled due to budget cuts, and she would have to shell out more money for a taxi. Muttering sourly under her breath about the Tories, she climbed into a cab and tried to ignore the driver’s curious looks, giving her address and hoping for the best. As they pulled up outside the small, semi-detached house she had grown up in, she bunged a twenty pound note at the cabbie and scrambled out before he could say a word, marching up the front path and ringing the doorbell in an attempt to overlook her mounting sense of apprehension. She could feel her chest getting tight and tears burning at her eyes as she waited for an answer, and when her father opened the door and surveyed her with a look of stupefaction, she dissolved into tears and fell into his arms, sobbing profusely. 

“Love?” Dave asked with concern, steering her into the hall and pushing the door closed with his foot. “Hey. Clara, what’s all this? We weren’t expecting you.” 

“Oh, I suspect shit’s hit the fan,” a familiar, catty voice said, and Clara looked up for long enough to see Linda stood in the doorway to the lounge, a smug look on her face. She shuddered, and went back to crying on her dad. “The little tart’s come crawling home because she can’t stand the heat in London.” 

“Linda,” Dave said without conviction. “I was trying not to mention it.” 

“Why? She knows what she’s done wrong, and she’s come home for tea and sympathy. Not getting any.” 

“Don’t be spiteful,” he told her feebly, one hand stroking Clara’s hair, and she tried to relax. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Right, kiddo?” 

She nodded emphatically, becoming faintly aware that she was leaving a damp patch on her dad’s jumper.

“See? Now, Linda, can you pop the kettle on?”

“No.”

“ _Please_.” 

“Fine.” 

“And maybe give us a little bit of space?” 

Linda sniffed. “With pleasure,” she said stiffly, then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “tart,” which Dave ignored. Clara felt a small stab of loathing towards him for that. 

Her father steered her towards the lounge and settled them both down on the sofa, handing her a neatly ironed handkerchief and smiling encouragingly as she dabbed her eyes with it. “There. Isn’t that better?” 

“I guess,” Clara mumbled, blowing her nose and trying to regain a modicum of composure. “Thanks.” 

“Why don’t you explain what’s happened, love? We’ve only seen what’s been in the paper, and-” 

“Since when did you read _The Sun_?” Clara asked, looking up at him and scowling. “What happened to you being a _Telegraph_ man?” 

“Oh,” he looked a touch embarrassed. “Well, I get that from time to time now, but generally we get the _Mail_ and the _Sun_.” 

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Linda likes the columnists, you see.” 

“Oh, well if bloody _Linda_ likes them…” 

“There’s no need to be bitchy.” 

 _There was no need for you to marry her,_ Clara thought to herself sourly. “Sorry,” she said in as sulky a tone as she could get away with. “Well, it’s a load of bollocks.” 

“Language.” 

“Dad, I’m thirty.” 

“Old enough to know better.” 

Clara rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It’s not true. The whole thing is totally made up.” 

“That was you, though,” Dave said, blinking in confusion. “In the picture.” 

“Right, so you’re calling me a liar?”

“That’s not what I said!” 

“That’s what you implied!”

“Clara, dear,” Linda interjected, popping her head around the door. “Don’t be rude to your father. Milk? Sugar?” 

“Neither, thanks,” Clara muttered, watching as Linda disappeared again. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d do that.” 

“I didn’t, love, it was just… well, Linda pointed out that it _is_ you, and-”

“And clearly, you would believe the woman who occasionally tries to call me Clarissa, despite that not being and never having been my name, and who once tried to convince you that I’d tried it on with her godawful brother.”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Dave said defensively. “And the Clarissa thing is funny.” 

“OK, _Davina_. Let’s see how you like it.” 

“You’re being petty.” 

“She’s awful, dad,” Clara rolled her eyes, losing patience. “I keep telling you that.” 

“Yes, and you told _Linda_ that, too,” Dave snapped. “Remember that lovely drunk text you sent her after she so kindly stayed up to listen to your show?” 

“Dad, she’s a rampant homophobe who keeps telling me it’s ‘all just a phase.’” 

“You kept bringing girls home to wind her up!” 

“No, I kept bringing girls home _because I fancied them_.” 

“Right.” 

“Jesus Christ, you’ve become such a self-righteous prick since Mum died.” 

“Clara!”

“What?” she said, a touch hysterically, no longer caring about what he thought of her. “You’d believe Linda over me? You genuinely think that I – your only child, who you’ve raised with love and compassion and understanding _since I was born_ – would sell John out to the bloody _Sun_?” 

“Well…” 

“For god’s sake, dad, no!” she exploded. “No, I wouldn’t! What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“There’s no need to shout,” Linda said tartly, appearing with two large mugs of coffee, and a much smaller mug of tea. Clara raised her eyebrows at the barely concealed slight. “Or look at me like that.” 

“Oh, right, cos clearly you _never_ look at me like I’m an unwelcome piece of crap that’s been dragged into your home. Which, need I point out, was actually my _mum’s_ home?” 

“I know you’re feeling petty but that needn’t extend to us,” Linda clucked, and Clara fought the urge to slap the woman “Save that for John and your nasty tabloid interviews.”

“What the fuck? Can someone please listen to m-” 

“ _Language_ ,” Linda snapped. “Such a _mouth_. She can’t get that from you, Dave. Must be a London thing. Or her mother’s side.” 

Dave looked somewhat helpless as Clara blinked at Linda in shock, wondering why her dad was letting Linda get away with this. “You’ve got to be joking,” Clara said. 

“Well,” Linda sniffed haughtily. “Such uncouth manners. Such loose morals. Selling out your friend to the _Sun!_ Honestly, I ask you. Must get it from your mother, I hear she had quite the reputation.” 

Clara stared at Linda in abject shock. “I’m sorry?” she asked in a low, dangerous voice. “ _What_ did you just say?” 

“Well, a couple of ladies at work knew her and they did say that she got about a b-” 

Linda was interrupted by Clara kicking over the coffee table and storming from the room, seizing her suitcase from the hall and walking out of the house before anyone could stop her. _Not that anyone is going to bother to,_ she thought to herself angrily. _He’s too bloody under Linda’s_ _thumb to consider it._  

She wasn’t entirely sure where she was planning to go. There was her gran’s house, but that was on the outskirts of town, and difficult enough to reach at the best of times. There was the beach, but that would be crawling with holidaymakers, and she wasn’t sure she could face that level of enforced jollity. Her aunt’s place was technically only a short walk away, but the woman would undoubtedly be revelling in Bonnie’s _coup de grace,_ and besides, Clara hadn’t been welcome there for years. She sighed, perching on a low garden wall and considering her options.

Option one: go back to London and face the music. Somehow that idea seemed less than appealing, particularly when Missy and lawyers and journalists were factored into the mix. 

Option two: find a hotel, check in, and spend more money. Money that she really ought to be saving, particularly given the likelihood of imminent unemployment. 

Option three: attempt to get to her grandmother’s place, but that seemed unnecessarily difficult, and there was no guarantee that her nan would be there. She was more likely jetting around the world on yet another of her endless holidays, from which she sent Clara semi-regular postcards of luxurious locales. 

Option four: oh god, she didn’t know. There wasn’t an option four. Bonnie had ballsed everything up for her spectacularly, and now she was left to bear the brunt of the consequences while her cousin got off scot-free. She’d lost at least one of her jobs, she’d lost John, and now she’d apparently lost her family, if her father’s lack of a backbone and Linda’s callous words were anything to go by. She was alone, she was terrified, and she was grieving for everything she’d lost in the wake of the _Sun_ ’s vindictive article. 

She could live without the job at Radio TARDIS. Hell, at a push she could live without her job at Coal Hill, though she’d be forced to go back to waiting tables and working in bars to earn her keep, and she’d undoubtedly attract more attention than she wanted in the wake of her brief stint on the radio. But she wasn’t so sure she could live without John – not knowing that he loathed her for something that she did not do, and not when he had fallen off the wagon and relapsed to his old ways. That was her fault. However indirectly, that was her fault. While she couldn’t have known, all those years before, that one day Bonnie would exact her revenge thus, she knew it was a foolproof plan on Bonnie’s part: no one would believe the truth, because it seemed too lurid and improbable to _be_ the truth.

 _Well played,_ she thought bitterly, because credit where credit was due, it had been an excellent plot. _Well played, Bon._

She sighed and got up, beginning to trudge towards the centre of town in search of food, or, at the very least, coffee. She needed to sit and think about things, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to do that successfully while perched on a wall on the edge of a housing estate, feeling sorry for herself and cursing her relatives to hell and back. As she circled the 1960s concrete sprawl, scuffing her feet and avoiding making eye contact with anyone she happened to encounter, she realised abruptly that she knew where she was, and turned towards the buildings to her right, narrowing her eyes as she tried to think.

If she was right, then there was someone in there she could talk to, and trust, and who wouldn’t let her down. If things hadn’t changed in the last year – and she prayed to god they hadn’t – then she might just have a hope of finding somewhere to go in Blackpool. Making her way towards the tallest, ugliest, building of the lot, she found to her considerable lack of surprise that the lift was broken, and resigned herself to lugging her case up the stairs instead. Thank god for her panicked, light packing. Thank god no one in London could see her now: a sweaty, tearful mess, struggling with a suitcase as she ascended ten floors and cursed whoever had deemed it necessary to only install one lift in a block of flats this size.

Reaching the appropriate balcony, she bit down on her lip as she counted the doors, praying, praying, praying that she would get lucky. _Thirty-six, 37, 38…_ she stopped in front of the familiar, faded-pink door labelled _39_ , and knocked before her nerves could get the better of her. 

The door was yanked open, the smell of scented candles spilling out, and the girl who had answered stared at Clara in open-mouthed shock. “Clara?” 

Clara smiled tiredly. “Hi, Rose.” 


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara pays a visit to an old friend, and the two of them revisit the past to take her mind off the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of semi-inspired by various fan theories that the two of them knew each other as kids, and also cos they would canonically be the same age.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you,” Rose said, hovering on the doormat and blinking at Clara like she was a ghost. Clara felt self-conscious, and she prayed that her earlier crying session had not rendered her eyes overly red or swollen. “But what the hell are you doing here?”

“Urm,” Clara wondered how best to explain, and decided to start at the beginning. “Stuff in London…” 

“Is this about that _Sun_ article?” 

“Jesus Christ, why does _everyone_ know about that?” 

“My mum phoned me up and told me about it,” Rose said, by way of explanation. Clara was on the verge of cursing Jackie Tyler when Rose continued: “You know what she’s like. She saw straight through the bitch – told me what a nasty piece of work your cousin was, the lot. It went on for a while, actually. A lot of really imaginative swearing occurred.”

“How the hell can your mum see that, and my dad can’t?” Clara groaned. “Just went ’round his, and obviously bloody Linda stuck her oar in. Might have lost my temper. May or may not have kicked over the coffee table.” 

“You didn’t,” Rose gaped at her in awe, then burst out laughing. “You’re incredible. Come in, just don’t kick my coffee table. It’s already on its last legs, and Alex can’t get me a new one until next month.” 

“Deal,” Clara acquiesced, stepping over the threshold and blinking in the sudden semi-darkness of the hall. Framed photographs lined the walls, and Clara looked around for the familiar ones of her and Rose, smiling as she located them and felt the warm glow of recollection. “Where _is_ your mum?” 

“Back with dad,” Rose rolled her eyes, but Clara could tell that she was pleased about this development. “Living over in Bispham.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Nah,” Rose went through to the kitchen, and Clara followed, the warm yellow walls and cupboards improving her mood a fraction. “Gone proper old-married-couple and bought a little place over there. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Porch. Back garden. The works. I’m anticipating them getting a dog next.” 

“And they left you here? Cheeky buggers.” 

“Wanted to stay,” Rose shrugged. “My flat, my ends.” 

“You did _not_ just say that.” 

“What?” Rose adopted the most London accent she could manage. “My endssssss.”

Clara laughed. “You sound like some of my students,” she took a seat as Rose put the kettle on. “How’s work?”

“Clara,” Rose turned to look at her, and Clara recognised her friend’s most no-nonsense expression. “You’re not here to talk about me.” 

“That’s not-”

“You’re here because you need someone to spend time with, who doesn’t think you’re a mega-slut.”

“Hey-” 

“Don’t deny it, Clara,” Rose raised an eyebrow. “I know you. Also, you totally _are_ a mega-slut, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Hey,” Clara groused, feeling herself blush. “I _was_. Past tense.” 

“So, not a single thing has happened between you and this old bloke?” Rose asked, and when Clara hesitated, she gaped at her with scandalised incredulity. “Oh, my god. Tell me everything. Now.” 

“Nothing like that!” Clara said at once. “I kissed him, he got weird… you know, he’s my type – definitely my type – but he’s not interested. And also, there’s now the ever-so-slight issue of him thinking that I’m a complete bitch who’s sold him down the river. Puts a bit of a dampener on things.” 

“That’s an issue, yeah,” Rose sighed, grabbing two – thankfully reasonable-size – mugs and sticking teabags in them. “God, I don’t know how he could think that.” 

“He’s never had the misfortune of meeting Bonnie.” 

“Lucky bloody him.” 

“Yup,” Clara grimaced, then remembered what she’d discovered that morning. “You know, she’s in London now.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Rose make a dismissive noise. “You know what she’s doing, don’t you?” 

“Working for… oh, I don’t know, some organisation I hadn’t heard of.”

“ _Truth or Consequences._ It’s some nutter leftie organisation. All about anarchical liberalism or some bollocks like that. Surprised she’s not been done for trying to overthrow Corbyn or assassinate May yet.” 

“It’s only a matter of time.” 

“Point,” Rose made a face, making the tea and then passing Clara’s mug to her. “I can’t believe she’d do this. Selling you out to the tabloids – that’s a new low, even for her.” 

“You know her,” Clara shrugged, taking a sip and grimacing at how strong it was. “The opportunity must have presented itself, and she never could pass up the chance for revenge.” 

“No,” Rose said, looking shifty. “She never could.” 

“What’s that face for?” Clara asked, narrowing her eyes. “You look guilty as sin.” 

“Do I?” Rose sipped her tea, attempting to look innocent and failing spectacularly. “I shouldn’t. I haven’t done anyone. _Thing._ Anything.” 

“Oh, my god. Tell me she didn’t seduce you or anything awful and clichéd like that.” 

“She… might have.” 

“What about Alex?!”

“We were on a break!” Rose protested, setting her mug down. “And she sort of flung herself at me in a bar… kept buying me drinks, and just… c’mon, you know I could never resist you, and she’s basically evil packaged up in your body.” 

Clara groaned, affixing her friend with an amused but horrified look. “You’re bloody incorrigible.”

“It’s not my fault genetics did really, really well with the two of you.” 

“Rose, you’ve played into her revenge plot.”

“But…” 

“Please offer me one concrete reason you shagged my cousin.” 

“…nostalgia?” Rose smirked, and Clara nearly spat out her tea.

“You’re a nightmare,” she managed after a minute of spluttering. “An actual nightmare.” 

“I try.”

“What did Alex have to say about this?” 

“Oh, not a lot. He was a bit busy envisioning it.” 

“Oh, my god. Please don’t make me think about that, because me thinking about him thinking about Bonnie is basically just…” Clara shuddered, taking another sip of tea to try and dissipate the mental image. “No.”

“Sorry,” Rose was still smirking, and Clara shook her head wearily, still too surprised to be angry. “So, look… what are you actually going to do about any of this shit? You can’t just stay at my place forever and bury your head in the sand.”

“Why not?” 

“Because one, I have a life; two, don’t be a wimp; three, Alex will probably just stare at you awkwardly; and four, you know what happens if we spend too much time together.” 

Clara turned red, trying not to think too intently about the last reason. “Point.” 

“So, I repeat: what are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Clara sighed, knowing she needed to think practically but still dreading the prospect. “John came over and yelled that I was fired, and that he hoped I got fired from Coal Hill as well. So, that’s probably going to be a thing.” 

“Wait, he actually said that to you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What the _fuck_?” 

“He was drunk. He’s not usually… he used to be a drinker, remember? But he got sober and well obviously, he saw the article and he just… he just…” 

Before Clara could stop herself, she’d burst into tears again. Embarrassed, ugly, shuddering sobs, that she knew were less than attractive, but she didn’t care. 

“Dear god, Oswald. This isn’t your fault,” Rose said pragmatically, patting Clara’s shoulder. She’d never been great at dealing with crying women. “It’s Bonnie’s.” 

“It’s my fault he’s drinking.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“It’s my fault he’s gonna die young.” 

“He’s fifty-eight.” 

“It’s _all_ my fault.” 

“For the love of god,” Rose put her hands on Clara’s shoulders and shook her friend until Clara met her gaze. “Pull – yourself – together.” 

“No,” Clara wailed, growing hysterical as the magnitude of the day’s events hit her. “This is my fault, Rose, you don’t-”

Rose’s hand connected with her cheek, and Clara stopped crying at once, staring at her friend in shock. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“You…” Clara stammered, taken aback by Rose’s actions, even if a part of her knew she probably deserved it. “You _slapped_ me!” 

“Yes,” Rose said patiently. “Well done. Bloody hell, I don’t know how Amy is indulging you down south, but you’re not weeping and wailing all over me. I won’t have it.” 

“But…” 

“I will _not_ have it. Got it?” 

“Bloody hell, you sound just like your mum.” 

“Where do you think I learnt from?” Rose rolled her eyes, getting to her feet and staring down at Clara with a look of steel. “Get up.”

Clara stood up reluctantly, eyeing her half-finished tea and considering complaining. “Why-” 

“We’re going to the beach.”

“But it’s gonna be busy…” Clara whined, less than enthusiastic about the prospect. “There’s tourists everywhere.”

“I don’t care, we’ll go to Lytham then. You need see air, London is making you all soft.” 

“But-” 

“So help me god, I will slap you again if you don’t stop whining. If you mention the tea, I can make more later. I might even stretch to wine if you’re good. But only if you stop _bloody_ complaining.” 

“Fine!” Clara rolled her eyes, following Rose downstairs to the bus stop in obedient silence before a realisation dawned on her and she nudged her friend. “Might have left my purse upstairs.”

Rose shot her an unimpressed glance, fumbling through her pockets until she located a crumpled fiver and grinned at it in triumph. “Well, just this once, I’ll pay then.”

“You’re the best,” Clara mumbled, following her friend onto the bus once it arrived and taking a seat as Rose paid. She noticed an older man sat across from her affixing her with a judgemental look, but before she could say anything, Rose had slid into the seat beside her, grinning widely and passing Clara a bus ticket. “Rose…” 

“No whining,” Rose warned, putting her finger on her lips in a condescending manner until Clara stopped trying to protest, then continuing: “Beach. Sea. It’s good for you. You’ll feel better.” 

Clara fell sulkily silent as the bus trundled on, hunching down in her seat and resting her forehead against the glass of the window. Two or three pothole-filled roads later, she shifted her head to Rose’s shoulder, and felt her friend’s arm slip around her waist reassuringly. 

“Missed you,” Clara mumbled. “Missed you a lot.” 

“Missed you too, you whiny almost-southerner.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah, ouch,” Rose chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Clara’s hair. “Glad you’re home.” 

The two friends fell silent as the bus reached the edge of Lytham, and Clara looked around at the familiar Victorian town with a mounting sense of excitement. Not that she’d admit it, but Rose had been right: being back by the sea was calming her down exponentially, and she could feel her breathing and her panic easing at the prospect of feeling sand between her toes again. As the bus drew to a halt, Clara scrambled over Rose in her haste to disembark, racing towards the grassy dunes that served as a boundary between town and beach and tasting the salt in the air.

She was dimly aware of Rose behind her, but the soft sand of the dune sucked at her feet and she turned her attention to scaling the low rise, reaching the top and feeling thoroughly out of breath. The sparkling waters of the Irish Sea stretched out before her, and she inhaled lungfuls of sea air, the weight of her worries melting away as she slip-slid down the beach side of the dune, racing across the golden sands and laughing as she went. 

“Hey!” Rose called, finally catching her up, seizing her arm and pulling her to a halt before she could make it to the water’s edge. “Wait, you lunatic. You can’t go paddling in your shoes.”

“Why?” Clara asked petulantly. “Want to.”

“Nutter,” Rose led her by the hand to the shelter of the pier, slipping off her brightly coloured socks and trainers, tucking the former into the latter. Clara kicked off her worn Chelsea boots and arranged them neatly at the base of one of the pier supports, shoving her socks into them and rolling up her skinny jeans with some difficulty. When she looked up she found her friend already heading towards the sea, her trainers hung over her shoulder, and she grinned, stepping carefully in Rose’s sandy footsteps in imitation of a game they’d played as children.

As the icy waters of the sea closed around Clara’s ankles, it felt like safety. It felt like coming home. 

She took another step away from the beach, then another, then another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, Alex = Ten. The name comes from Alec Hardy, the character David Tennant played in Broadchurch.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up with a hangover is bad enough. But for John, waking up with a hangover and _then_ discovering that Clara is missing... well, things can't get any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooops all the angst.

John returned to consciousness slowly and in agony. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted foul, and he realised that he was lying _on_ his bed, still fully dressed and wearing his shoes. He cracked one eye open, discovered a puddle of sick on the duvet next to him, and groaned, a sound that only exacerbated his headache. What had he _done_ last night?

Looking around the room, he discovered a half-empty bottle of Scotch dripping onto the carpet, and his memories returned to him alongside a rush of shame. The article in _The Sun._ The off-licence. Calling someone a slut, loudly and angrily. Oh, yeah. That had been Clara. Shit, he shouldn’t have done that. Shit, what else had he said? Something about firing her, and something about lawyers. Jesus Christ, he should really put a halt to that. He couldn’t bankrupt her, no matter what she’d done. She’d get enough of a comeuppance by losing her jobs – both of them, because he was fairly sure that Coal Hill wouldn’t want to keep on someone who was that much of a PR liability – and he knew he should really enjoy that thought, but he found that he didn’t. The thought of Clara suffering, even financially, was abhorrent to him, and he refused to allow such a situation to come to pass. 

Had he even let her explain? He dimly recalled her mentioning a cousin. An identical cousin, or some bollocks like that. The whole thing had seemed ludicrous at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure. _Clara_ wouldn’t sell him out to the tabloids. _Clara_ wouldn’t stab him in the back. He had known her for only a short time, but he was certain of that. 

He rolled over in bed, avoiding the patch of sick and groping around for his phone with the intention of googling Clara’s mysterious cousin. Perhaps she really did exist, in which case, he should possibly do the charitable thing and give Clara her job back… or at the very least attempt to call off Missy and her pack of lawyers, if such a thing was possible. He wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t try to sue Clara for being related to the mystery woman. 

Grimacing at the screen, he was initially displeased to find a large crack down it. When he discovered it still switched on, he was momentarily jubilant, until he discovered the enormous collection of messages Missy had left for him in various formats and felt a swooping sense of guilt. The first nine messages in his notification centre all contained variants of _you fucking idiot, you’re drinking again?!_ and he opened the chat window to discover what he’d apparently said to his producer to give the game away. 

_Wrnr tp ser Clara. She’d fires. Due the bitvg._

_O ducking hste her_

_She’d rakem ne fot a foil_

He grimaced. The texts after that mostly consisted of incoherent gibberish, followed by well over twenty consecutive messages from Missy berating him for… well, what he’d done, which was relapse quite spectacularly over something as trivial as a woman. Yet, somehow, “trivial” felt like the wrong word for Clara, who was far from being insignificant, and he instead cursed himself for his two weaknesses: beautiful, headstrong women; and alcohol. Somehow, the two were inextricably linked in his mind, and he cursed himself for ending his seven years of sobriety at the drop of a hat – or, in this case, at the drop of a newspaper article. He’d fallen apart, and now he had to start again at square one. Failing that there was the alternative, which seemed more appealing at that present moment in time, if he was honest. There was still half a bottle of Scotch dripping onto his carpet, and he slid out of bed, crawling over to it and taking a long dram. He tried not to think about the fact that this was what he’d been reduced to. An unnecessarily awful hangover, and floor-Scotch. 

He checked his phone again as he sipped the amber liquid, the alcohol taking the edge off his hangover and colouring his mood a touch brighter. He had no intention to listen to any of Missy’s voicemails, but he seemed to have an awful lot of red numbers next to his Twitter app, and that didn’t require sound, so he supposed he could check that.

 _No,_ a tiny voice in his head nagged. _That’s work. You know what happened the last time you mixed work and spirits._

“Feck off,” John said aloud, as though that might help, and to his surprise the voice fell silent. “I can do what I like.” 

He clicked on the app, entered his notifications tab, and his heart stopped.

**@BlackpoolPolice:** _Missing: @Clara_Oswald_, last seen yesterday evening entering the water at Lytham St Annes. Shoes and socks found underneath the pier. Please call 101 with information._

A particularly unflattering photograph of Clara was attached – one that he knew she would find horrifying. He snorted a little at that, mirthlessly, then started panic-scrolling. 

It had been sent to him hundreds of times by concerned followers, each accompanied by a string of meaningless emojis or a tokenistic inanity about finding her. One or two people were pleased about the development, and seemed to think John might be as well. He didn’t have the emotional energy to block them, his hands shaking so hard that he dropped his phone twice before he could scroll through enough of the feed to find a short article by the _Blackpool Gazette_ , expanding on the police’s 140-character plea. 

_Popular radio presenter Clara Oswald, 30, has been reported missing by her father following a row at the family home in Starr Gate on the afternoon of April 11 th. Last seen entering the water at Lytham St Annes that evening by a visiting tourist from Manchester, Miss Oswald is thought to have been distressed following the publication of an article about her relationship with co-presenter John Smith, 58. A pair of shoes and socks believed to belong to Miss Oswald were recovered from beside the pier, but police have no other leads. If you have any information, please contact Blackpool Police on 101._

John slumped backwards until he was lying on the floor in a roughly horizontal position, the bottle of Scotch laying forgotten at his side. _Missing_. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew what that meant – or at least, knew what that usually meant. Knew what she very probably was, and knew it was almost definitely his fault. He’d shouted and lost his temper and called her names he didn’t mean. He hadn’t listened to her or let her explain, and she’d fled back to her hometown and… _Jesus._ He couldn’t even entertain the thought of her dead. He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t think about her floating, lifeless, just below the surface of the waves. Wouldn’t think about having to face her family and explain his role in her death. Because she _had_ to be dead. He knew her well enough to know that she would fail to cope with this final, crushing blow; that she would fail to cope with his bitter, furious words, and his spiteful actions. She would have taken the easy way out, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. He’d broken his sobriety, allowed drunk words to inflict their damage, and now he would pay the price for his foolishness. 

He seized the bottle of Scotch from beside him and threw it at the wall, watching it shatter and the golden liquid seep into the carpet as he began to cry. Never again. He’d never touch a drop of the damned stuff again, because it had condemned someone he loved to death, and he couldn’t allow that to happen again. Sobriety was the only way forward. Cold, painful sobriety, and alongside it, the cold, painful weight of Clara’s death. 

Beside him, the phone rang, and he scowled at it, reading the name on the display and declining the call. Clara was dead. Missy calling him wouldn’t bring her back. 

A thought struck him, and he looked back towards his phone, a small spark of optimism burning brightly in his brain. There was one thing he could do, but hadn’t thought to. 

Oh, he was thick. Thick, pessimistic, and Scottish.

It was a _phone_. 

It was a phone _with Clara’s number saved in it._  

If she was alive, she wouldn’t answer the phone if she knew it was him, so he crawled to the landline beside the bed, fumbling with the unfamiliar, enormous buttons as he typed out her number and pressed the green button. 

_Ringggggggggg._

So, her phone was still switched on. That had to be a good sign. 

 _Ringggggggggg._  

He tried not to get his hopes up. A part of him prepared for the worst, and he held his breath subconsciously, forcing himself not to allow his optimism to spiral out of control. 

 _Ringggggggggg._  

What if someone else answered? 

 _Ringggggggggg._  

What if they told him they’d found the phone? In the same way that Clara had learned about Danny? 

 _Ringggggggggg._  

What if her phone was sat on the beach, and someone was going to pick it up and tell him that they were looking at Clara’s lifeless corpse? 

 _Ringggggggggg._  

Oh god, he should just hang up now. He should just hang up, and learn her fate from the news. He should just forget the whole-

“Hello?” 

It was her. It was indisputably, mercifully her, and he burst into loud, shaky tears of relief, unable to form a coherent thought other than _she’s alive!_  

“Hello?” she said again, her tone bemused. “Who is this?”

“I…” he took a great, shuddering breath, passing his hand over his face and trying to remember how to breathe and how to speak. “It’s John.”

“What the fuck do you want?” she snarled, her manner changing in an instant, and he was surprised by the malice in her tone. “To call me a slut again? To tell me when you’re taking me to court? Is that it?”

“No,” he protested weakly, unprepared for her fury but supposing he deserved it. “To check you’re not dead.” 

“Why would I be dead?” she laughed harshly. “You’re not so important to me that I’d kill myself over you, John Smith. Get your ego under control.” 

“You mean you haven’t seen Twitter?” 

“Since when did you do Twitter? What, are you spreading more poison about me? Telling everyone where I live so they can come ‘round with flaming torches?” 

“No! Blackpool Police… your family reported you missing.” 

There was a dangerous pause. “Very funny,” she said after a moment, her tone odd. “Seriously, John, that’s hilarious.” 

“No, really, they have. The _Gazette_ have put out an appeal for information. You were seen walking into the sea.” 

“Oh, for the love of…” she swore under her breath, her anger evidently forgotten for a moment. “I should deal with that.” 

“But-”

“I’m not dead. Tell your poxy guilt to piss off.”

“Clara, I need to talk to you.” 

“Well, I’ll phone you once I’ve informed people I’m not dead. Or missing.” 

“Promise?” 

“What are we, eight?” 

“Just… please.”

“Fine, I promise,” she spat. “Now get lost.” 

She hung up with a _click_ , and he was left blinking at the handset in stupefied silence.

Not dead. “Not dead” was a good start. “Not dead” was a really sterling start. Now all he had to do was to phone Missy and tell her to call off the lawyers, clean his bedding, empty the bottle of Buckfast that was currently sat in his kitchen, and look up Clara’s mysterious cousin. The first task seemed the least pleasant, so he resolved to get it out of the way before undertaking the others. 

He dialled Missy’s number, turning the volume of the phone down in anticipation of her answering the call and bollocking him for his actions. 

“John _fucking_ Smith!” she screamed, and he winced, holding the phone at arm’s length. “What the _fuck_ are you playing at, man? You had a drink?” 

“Aye, I had a drink.”

“And I’m assuming you went and saw Clara.”

“You’d assume correctly.”

“You want me to sue her.” 

“Urm,” he began, feeling sheepish. “No, actually. If you could call off any lawyers you’ve set on her, that’d be really ideal.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “Like I actually called anyone last night. You were drunk. You’re an idiot when you drink, and I knew sober you would hate the idea. So, as much as I’d _like_ to call Noble and Temple, I’ll refrain from doing so.” 

“You’re a doll.” 

“Don’t you ‘doll’ me,” she snapped, and John chanced putting the phone back to his ear. “Have they found her? Because if she’s dead, her family are gonna sue the bollocks off you.” 

“She’s not dead.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because I just phoned her.” 

“And she answered? Wow. She’s much stupider than she looks.” 

“Look, can you… just… I’ll update you later. Don’t do anything rash,” John implored. “Don’t even fire her.” 

“John! It’s the least she des-” 

“Please. Just. Hold off.” 

“Fine.”

“You’re a star.” 

John hung up before Missy could say anything else, and looked towards the stairs. There was a bottle of Buckfast downstairs, and it had a meeting scheduled with the kitchen sink.

 

* * *

 

Waiting for Clara to call him back was the longest three hours of John’s life. He mopped up the puddle of Scotch in his bedroom, washed his duvet twice, emptied the bottle of Buckfast down the plughole, googled Clara’s cousin, and then made himself five consecutive cups of coffee in an attempt to combat his hangover. When his phone finally rang again, he snatched it up eagerly, pressing it to his ear and beaming. 

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, forgetting her anger for a moment. “How are you?” 

“Don’t sound so bloody happy,” she said at once, and he felt his heart drop. “You hate me. Remember?”

“About that-”

“No, you don’t get to speak first. You bloody hurt me, John. Everything you said. Everything you did. The fact you genuinely thought I would do that appals me. That’s what hurt me the most.” 

“I know you didn’t do it, Clara.” 

“Oh, well you’ve changed your bloody tune.”

“I know. I, urm… I found Bonnie. I believe you.” 

“What do you mean ‘found her’?” 

“I googled her. Bonnie Ravenwood.” 

“How did you know-” 

“I _do_ pay attention to the things you say, you know.” 

“Right. Well. What did you find?”

“Your double.”

“Good,” she sounded a touch smug about this, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. “And you concluded…” 

“Well, I found the journalist, too. Photographer. Whatever he was. He bumped into her in a bar, assumed she was you. He was quite embarrassed when I pointed out his mistake. He’ll be recanting the article tomorrow.” 

“Good for him.”

“You can have your job back,” John said in a small voice, trying to overlook the hostility in Clara’s voice. “If you’d like.”

“What? So I can come and be verbally abused by you every day? No thanks. I don’t fancy being called a tart and a slut and a god-knows-what on the regular.”

“Clara…” he put his head in his hands, hating himself for his angry words the night before. “Please. I made an awful mistake. I shouldn’t’ve said what I did. I should’ve listened to you. I can never apologise enough.”

“Correct.” 

“I just…” 

“You just _what_?”

“Today,” he confessed quietly, tears threatening to choke his words. “Today, when I read that you were missing… Clara, the world stopped.”

“Don’t,” she protested without conviction, and he could tell that for the first time, her anger was waning. “John…” 

“Clara, I can’t lose you. Please, god, I can’t lose you. I know I behaved appallingly. I know I fucked up. But I can’t… I can’t not be around you. I want to get past this. I want you to have your job back. I need you, Clara. You make everything seem brighter and better and I just… I can’t bear the thought of you not being in my life. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t even begin to express it in words, so can you please, please just let me try and make amends?” 

“I’ll think about it,” she said thickly, and he realised that she was crying. “OK? I’ll think about it, and I’ll call you.” 

“That’s…” he swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to sound upbeat. “OK. That sounds fair enough.” 

“Good. And John?” 

“Mm?” 

“Please don’t drink anymore.” 

“I promise,” he vowed. “I swear: never again.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara goes to confront Bonnie. Or try to, at any rate.

Clara knew that, strictly speaking, Good Friday was not intended to be used for somewhat nefarious purposes. She _knew_ that; she just found it difficult to make herself care. Jesus seemed like a reasonable kind of guy, and he’d almost definitely understand that confronting her bitter, estranged cousin definitely counted as doing good deeds. Or so she’d kept telling herself for the duration of her morning of research, the Tube journey across London, and the ensuing ten-minute trek to a frankly downright rundown area of the city. 

Finding the Truth or Consequences headquarters was surprisingly easy, considering they were a pseudo-anarchist organisation that disavowed the capitalist heteropatriarchy. They were, according to Google, based in a nondescript office building in Lambeth, which Clara now found herself standing outside, scowling up at the ugly, stained, concrete façade as she sipped a cup of mediocre Starbucks in a carefully constructed gesture of “fuck you” to everything her cousin’s organisation stood for. She’d have preferred a Pret À Manger, but the area had proved unhelpful on that front, and thus Starbucks was the next most-capitalistic organisation she’d found between the Tube and here. 

“Well,” she said to herself after a few moments, taking a deep breath and downing the dregs of her disappointing latte. “No time like the present, Oswald.”

She chucked her coffee cup into a nearby bin, then rocked back on her heels, trying to psych herself up. _No time like the present._  

She didn’t move from her spot on the pavement, instead casting her gaze down at the pockmarked concrete and taking a fortifying breath.

 _No time like the-_  

“Are you going to stand out there all day?” a voice snapped, and she looked up to see a girl stood in the doorway, scowling mightily. The girl – because she didn’t look old enough to be granted the moniker of “woman” – had swirling tattoos curling around her neck and out of sight under her black top, and as she looked at Clara, her face passed through several different expressions, eventually settling on reverential awe. “S-sorry. I didn’t…” 

“I’m not Bonnie,” Clara said flatly. “So, you don’t need to look at me like that. I’m here to see her.” 

“Who the hell…” 

“Hasn’t she told you about her mass cloning experiments?” Clara deadpanned. “I’m Clone Number One. I’m here to murder her and take her place, then take over the world.”

“Hilarious,” the girl bared her teeth in a forced smile. “Who are you, really?” 

“I told you. Her clone. Only maybe a touch more biological than science-fictional. Our mothers were sisters.”

“Were?” 

“Yeah, they divorced each other in the eighties. Thatcher was a really divisive influence on our family.”

“Hilarious,” the girl said again, a touch more menacingly. “Stop fucking with me.” 

“My mum died, OK? Now, can I see my cousin, or not?” 

“I guess,” the girl muttered sulkily, standing aside and beckoning to Clara. “Come in, then.” 

Clara ascended the steps to the door, and stepped into a cramped, overheated hallway that smelled strongly of boiled cabbage. “What’s your name?” she asked curiously, looking down at the girl in the flickering electric light and trying to retain an air of politeness. “I’m Clara.” 

The girl hesitated for half a beat, evidently weighing up her options. “Ashildr,” she said after a moment, then grimaced. “It’s Scandinavian. My parents thought it was _unique_.” 

“It’s nice.”

“No, it’s not.” 

“It’s nicer than ‘Clara,’” Clara asserted, and the girl rolled her eyes in what may or may not have been agreement, before leading her down a rabbit-warren of corridors until they reached a bustling open-plan office space. Brightly coloured posters in varying hues of red plastered the walls, and somewhere a punk album was blasting out over low-quality speakers. The assorted employees – if they’d even call themselves that – were mostly lounging around, vaping and watching soapbox videos on YouTube on their expensive-looking Macs, which were in themselves a beautifully ironic counterpoint to their entire ideology. _This is,_ Clara thought to herself, _the most clichéd anarchist group headquarters I could have imagined._  

Her next thought was _Oh shit_ , because the entire office fell silent as they caught sight of her, staring at her with visible surprise. She waved awkwardly. “Hello,” she said, as brightly as she was able. “I’m not Bonnie. I’m actually Proto-Clone 231189. As you were.” 

“Clara,” an icy voice said behind her, and she turned to find Bonnie sat at a desk, dressed in a form-fitting black jacket, despite the baking-hot indoor temperature, and smirking with crimson-painted lips. _Nice colour,_ Clara thought to herself, somewhat hysterically. _Must try that._ “How wholly unpleasant to see you, cousin dearest.” 

“And you,” Clara shot back, with as much passive aggression as she could manage. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?” 

“You’re not here to murder me, are you?” Bonnie drawled. “Because we both know I’m stronger than you are, and I’d hate to have to kill you in self-defence. I’m rather fond of this coat.” 

“You say that like you’ve killed before.”

“Who says I haven’t?” Bonnie met Clara’s gaze and arched one eyebrow in a silent challenge. 

Clara really, sincerely hoped she was joking, and that she was not about to turn into a crime statistic. “I’m not here to murder you. Or am I?” 

“Ha ha,” Bonnie got to her feet and ushered Clara out of the main office, down a corridor and into a dull meeting room adorned with a round table and four rather forlorn-looking chairs. “OK, why are you really here?” 

“You know damn fucking well why,” Clara snapped, her composure evaporating now that no one else was there to see her. “What the hell were you playing at? Talking to the _Sun_?” 

“Ah,” Bonnie’s smirk, if anything, intensified. “That.”

“Yes, _that_. Start talking, or I swear to god-” 

“What? You’ll fuck my boyfriend again?”

“Do you have one I could fuck?” 

“I might,” Bonnie said evasively. “He’s not John, though, so I’m not sure he’d be your type. Not fatherly enough.” 

Clara’s hand connected with her cousin’s cheek before she could stop herself, but Bonnie only laughed at the blow, entirely unmoved. “I hate you,” Clara snarled, clenching her fist and returning it to her side. “I hate you for doing this. You have no _idea_ what you’ve done, or the trouble you’ve caused.” 

“Oh, you mean like all the trouble _you_ caused when you shagged my boyfriend?” 

“How the _hell_ does that compare?” Clara asked incredulously. “Oh yeah, screwing Davros was really so terrible of me. It definitely catapulted you to national media attention and made you into a social pariah.”

“You made him fall in love with you.” 

“I did no such thing,” Clara rolled her eyes dismissively. “I just shagged him.” 

“That was enough!” 

“That’s nothing compared to a _nation-“_

“He was my world!” Bonnie said in a rush, and for a moment Clara saw the pain in her eyes as the icy façade slipped. “He was everything to me, and you took that away. You ruined _everything_.” 

“Excuse me?” Clara asked. “My _mum_ had just died, and your mum started talking shit about my dad. _You_ started talking shit about my dad. _My dad_ , who you used to adore. You thought he was the best damn thing since sliced bread, and yet you turned on him in an instant and it broke the damn family apart!” 

“Oh, yeah, cos you were such a fan of him and Linda after the Nina thing.” 

“You made that a thousand times worse!” Clara protested, throwing her hands in the air. “That was none of your business, and yet you had to tell them… and then Linda hated me even more than she did before!” 

“She was awful anyway,” Bonnie shrugged, nonchalantly. “So, really, I was doing you a favour in revealing your true colours.” 

“God, you just… you have _no fucking_ _idea_ , do you?” Clara closed her eyes, fighting back tears. “You ruined everything then, and you’ve ruined everything now.”

“Good,” Bonnie said, but her lack of conviction was enough to make Clara open her eyes. Her cousin’s face was uncertain as she continued: “I’m glad.” 

“Are you?” Clara asked quietly. “Because John is the only damn person who actually makes me feel like I’m worth something. He is not my boyfriend, he is not my lover, he’s my _friend,_ and do you know why? Because he took the time to look after me after Danny died, and to make me feel like I counted for something. He understood what it was like, and he helped me. And you… you’ve blown it all apart. For what? For petty revenge? If you’d wanted that, why didn’t you just seduce Danny outright? You could’ve done that and called it quits, but instead… instead you had to take it too far. You had to make me into the kind of pariah you always held up and hated, just because of the mistakes I made in my past.” 

“Clara…”

“Goddamn it,” Clara swore, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks, and she swiped them impatiently away with her cuff. “You’ve ruined everything, OK? You’ve shattered everything to pieces, and I hope you’re happy.”

“Clara, I made a mistake,” Bonnie admitted softly, surprising Clara. “I’d had a bad day, I’d just got some… news, and… I bumped into that bloody journo. He called me ‘Clara’ and I just… I went for it. I said enough to get his attention, and we agreed to meet for coffee the next day. I’d calmed down by then, but I just… I’d made my bed, you know? I had to sleep in it. I didn’t know about you and John. I didn’t have any idea, I just knew what I’d seen and how it looked and… I fucked up. I needed money and I was angry and I messed up. I’m sorry. Please, can you… can you find it in your heart to accept my apology?” 

She held out her arms to Clara, who stepped into them warily and embraced her cousin for the first time in fourteen years. “It’s OK,” she said apprehensively. “I’m sorry, too. For the things I’ve done.”

“It’s OK,” Bonnie murmured, hugging her tighter, and Clara couldn’t quite dispel the nagging concern that Bonnie might be about to pull out and knife and stab her – literally, this time – in the back. “I’m sorry, Clara.”

“Bon,” Clara sighed. “Honestly, look, let’s just… try and maybe be friends. Yeah?” 

“I…” Bonnie broke off, and Clara pulled back, finding her cousin crying silently. “Oh god, sorry, I wasn’t going to…”

“What is it?” Clara asked, fumbling in her handbag for a tissue, but Bonnie shook her head. “Hey? This isn’t like you.” 

“No, I…” Bonnie swallowed, sinking into a chair. “Oh, god, Clara, I’m up shit creek, and I don’t know what to do.” 

“Hang on, is this all some elaborate plan to get money out of me?” Clara asked suspiciously, taking half a step back from her cousin. “Because if so…”

“No!” Bonnie said at once, shaking her head. “No, the _Sun_ gave me something, which helped, but… I just…” 

“What?” Clara realised Bonnie was being sincere and crouched in front of her, meeting her gaze and smiling as encouragingly as she was able. “Hey? What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t know,” Bonnie closed her eyes and said in a rush: “I’m pregnant.”

“OK,” Clara said pragmatically, sitting back on her haunches. “Is this good or bad news?” 

“No idea,” Bonnie shrugged, looking down at her hands and mumbling: “He’s buggered off, so probably not that good.” 

“What’s the plan?” 

“The plan?” 

“Yeah, the plan. You can’t keep working here; they’re not exactly going to support you through this.”

“Clara, it’s a left-leaning anarchist collective.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a great place to raise a baby. Maternity leave? Is that even a thing here?” 

“No,” Bonnie admitted in a small voice. “Nor is a salary.”

“Jesus Christ, Bon,” Clara sighed. “You can’t stay here. You need another job. Ideally, one that pays you.” 

“Well, do you have any suggestions?” Bonnie snapped. “Or are you just going to keep making idiotic statements?” 

“Bon.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Where are you living?” Clara asked, taking her cousin’s hand and squeezing gently. Alright, Bonnie had made a mistake, but she was family, and Clara couldn’t leave her here. 

“Urm. Pretty much wherever I can get my head down. Here, at the moment. Literally here – this is my bedroom after eight o’clock.” 

“Right. Balls to that, you’re coming home with me.” 

“Now?” 

“Yeah, now. Get your stuff.” 

Bonnie looked for a moment as though she might cry. “Sure?” 

“You’re my cousin, idiot. Yes, I’m sure.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara brings Bonnie home to meet Amy, who is less than enthusiastic about the situation...

Clara unlocked the front door and stepped inside, lugging Bonnie’s oversized, bulging backpack over the threshold and dumping it somewhat unceremoniously in the hall as her cousin followed behind her in silence, eyes downcast and visibly nervous. 

“Right,” Clara began, but, before she could say anything else, Amy stepped out of the lounge, a glass of wine in one hand and a serene smile on her face, which quickly turned to a look of confusion. “Ah. Hi.”

“OK, how much wine have I had?” Amy asked, looking between Clara and Bonnie and then back again, as though she were watching a tennis match. “Because there’s two of you.”

“Amy,” Clara took a deep breath, forcing herself to smile. “This is Bonnie. My cousin.” 

“Bonnie, your cousin who sold you out to the press and fucked your life up? That Bonnie?” Amy said in a dangerous voice, stepping forward menacingly and holding her drink in Clara’s general direction. “Clara, hold my wine while I kick her to the curb.” 

“Urm,” Clara said uncertainly, pushing away Amy’s glass away and edging towards her cousin protectively. “This is my _pregnant_ cousin, Bonnie.” 

“She still sold you out to the _Sun,_ though,” Amy scowled at Bonnie, who visibly cowered and stepped behind Clara for safety. “So…” 

“Amy, knock it off,” Clara squared up to her flatmate, somewhat unsuccessfully given the height difference, and attempted to look stern. “We buried the hatchet, and we both apologised, so she’s here to stay for a little bit. Assuming that’s alright.” 

“Hello,” Bonnie said in a small, panicked voice, then added: “Please don’t hit me, or I might have to hit you back.” 

“That’s not helping, Bon.” 

“Well,” Bonnie protested weakly. “She-” 

“Both of you, be nice,” Clara warned. 

“Why am I being nice?” Amy grumbled, taking a sip of her wine and continuing in her glowering. “Why is she moving in?”

“She’s not ‘moving in.’ She’s staying here until she finds her feet.” 

“They’re at the end of her legs,” Amy supplied helpfully, with a saccharine smile. “That was easy. Bye!” 

“Amy,” Clara sighed. “She’s pregnant, and she’s got nowhere else to go.”

Bonnie crossed her arms over her abdomen, shifting self-consciously from foot to foot. “Honestly, I can find somewhere… I don’t want to intrude…”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Clara said firmly, turning to shoot Bonnie the kind of look she typically reserved for her students. “You’re not going back there and sleeping in a meeting room. You’re pregnant.” 

“She was sleeping in a meeting room?” Amy asked, blinking at the new information, and Clara watched as her flatmate’s sour expression fell away. “Where?” 

“Urm,” Bonnie mumbled, looking embarrassed. “Where I work.” 

“That leftie place?” 

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t they put you up in digs?” 

“No,” Bonnie flushed a darker shade of red and muttered: “Didn’t pay me, either.”

Amy narrowed her eyes, and Clara worried that she might be about to say something furious. The Scottish woman’s face settled into a scowl, before she said thoughtfully: “You and Clara have smoothed things over, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then. You will be very welcome here, because I’m not having any of Clara’s family sleeping in a shitty meeting room in – where was it, Clara?” 

“Lambeth.” 

“Sleeping in a shitty meeting room in Lambeth. Pregnant or otherwise. It’s not on.” 

“So…” Clara said. 

“She’s staying,” Amy said, like it was the most obvious, natural thing in the world. “I’ll go and get my spare duvet.” 

Bonnie, to Clara’s considerable surprise, burst into tears. 

“Right,” Amy said pragmatically, adopting a somewhat maternal air. “Clara, she’s your cousin, so you sort her out with emotional support and the like, and I’ll fetch bedding.” 

Clara nodded and stepped forwards, hugging Bonnie tightly and feeling her cousin relax in her arms. “It’s OK,” she told her cousin quietly. “You’re safe here. Now Amy doesn’t want to murder you _,_ she’ll happily murder anyone who messes with you. We’ll order takeaway tonight, yeah? Tomorrow we can look at some jobs, and then on Easter Sunday we can have roast and just have family time.” 

“God, Clara, I’ve just…” Bonnie whimpered, still crying onto Clara’s shoulder. “I’ve made such a mess of things.” 

“No, you haven’t,” Clara assured her, stroking Bonnie’s hair and trying to ignore how weird it is to hug someone who was functionally her double. “We’ll sort this out, OK? I promise.” 

“I just… I can’t have a baby, I’m a wreck. You were always the one who liked kids, and kids liked you. I’m just a hopeless case with a fucked-up life.”

“You don’t have to have this baby,” Clara reminded her in a gentle tone, pulling back to look Bonnie in the eye. “Remember that.” 

“No, I do… I can’t…” Bonnie sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I just don’t know what to do with a kid.” 

“Helpfully, there’s a lot of books on the subject,” Clara teased. “Besides, I’ll help out. And I’m sure your mum will babysit.” 

“My mum threw me out.” 

“Ah,” Clara said, feeling a stab of awkwardness, then a surge of resentment towards her mother’s sister. “Well. Thanks, Aunt Vic. _I’ll_ babysit, then.” 

“You’ve got your show,” Bonnie mumbled, casting her eyes down and looking embarrassed. “And your school. And… shouldn’t you be at the station, actually?” 

“Nope,” Clara told her in as bright a tone as she was able to manage. “Not for a bit. I’m letting things calm down.” 

“How bad was it?” Bonnie asked, and Clara resigned herself to having to tell her the truth. She steered Bonnie into the lounge and plonked down on the sofa next to her.

“John was pretty angry,” she confessed unwillingly, clasping her hands in her lap and looking down at them. “He… broke his sobriety, and said a whole bunch of stuff to me, so I went up to Blackpool to try and get my head together. I wasn’t going to forgive him, but there was a mix-up and just… he really cares about me. A lot. And I can’t throw that away just because he made a mistake and said some things he regrets. So I forgave him.” 

“Clara… I know I can’t really talk, but…” 

“Bon. Please, don’t, OK? I’m trying not to hold grudges any more, and besides… he cares about me, I know he does. He’s proved that to me so many times. He was just hurt, and drunk, and… well, you know. What you did was pretty shitty and pretty convincing, so funnily enough, he believed it.” 

“I just want you to be happy.” 

 _That makes a change,_ Clara thought to herself, somewhat bitchily. “I am. He makes me happy.” 

“You love him, don’t you?” 

“What?!” Clara exclaimed, pulling away from her cousin and gaping in shock. “No! I… no!” 

“Clara, you’ve forgiven him already, and I’ve seen photos of you both. The way you look at him. I mean, come on. There’s a reason I went with the romance angle in that story.” 

“Bon…”

“I’m not an idiot, Clara.”

“Look,” Clara said in a low voice, unsure how to respond. “Maybe I do. But he doesn’t see me in that way, so…” 

“So you’re willing to torture yourself just to be near him,” Bonnie raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. “You deserve better than that.” 

“And you deserve better than some guy who’s got you up the duff and just cut and run, but here we both are.” 

“It wasn’t…” Bonnie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t just cut and run. Mainly because we weren’t actually a thing.” 

“Ah. One-night thing?” 

“Two-night thing.” 

“Was he cute?” 

“I guess?” Bonnie gave a non-committal shrug. “He was very… not-me. And not-Truth. Worked in publishing; pretty well-off; nice house.” 

Clara felt her stomach drop. “What…” she began, then licked her lips nervously. “What was his name?” 

“Will Bowman.” 

“Did he…” Clara stammered, feeling a mounting sense of horror. “Did he perchance wear a bow tie?” 

“Yeah, actually. How did you…” 

“I may have… had a thing with him.”

“You’re joking,” Bonnie gaped at her. “Wait. Actually… that does explain why he told me I seemed familiar. I thought I just had one of those generic-looking faces; good to know I don’t.” 

“I wish I was joking. Have you told him?” 

“No, he’d be boring as hell about it. Probably want to get married, or some shit like that. Not really my style, marriage.”  

“I mean, you could do worse,” Clara said. “Like you said: nice house… and publishing is a good industry to be in right now.” 

“Yeah, but… no. He had a tweed jacket. With _elbow patches._ ” 

They exchanged a knowing look, and just like that, they were both laughing, leaning on each other as they gasped for air. When Amy entered the lounge five minutes later, she found them slumped against each other and still giggling weakly, and she dropped her spare duvet over their heads in a chastising manner. “You two are lunatics,” she told the duvet-covered lump. “Actual lunatics. Clara, I thought you were going to murder her.” 

“I was. Then we realised blood is thicker than water,” Clara clawed the fabric off her face and poked her tongue out at Amy. “So, here we are.” 

“Well, don’t get weird on me, and don’t try and strangle each other in the night.” 

“Oh, I’d strangle Clara in the daytime,” Bonnie said with a straight face. “I’m an assassin, but even I can’t see in the dark.” 

“That reassures me,” Amy said drily. “ _So_ much. Now, shove up on the sofa. If we’re ordering food, we need to decide what, and I can’t do that if you’re taking up all the room.” 

“This is true,” Clara acquiesced, scooting to one side and pulling Bonnie with her as Amy plonked down on the end. “Food sounds good.” 

“Food sounds excellent,” Bonnie agreed, her eyes lighting up. “I’m starving.” 

Amy looked at her with concern. “When did you last eat?” 

“Urm,” Bonnie chewed her lip and cast her eyes down, her cheeks turning red. “I don’t know. I had a cuppa this morning, does that count?” 

“Jesus _Christ,_ I am going to sue the balls off this bloody organisation,” Amy muttered sourly. “That is just… slave labour, I swear.” 

“Amy, you’re not a lawyer.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m not having them treating your cousin like this. I’m not having them starving Bonnie, and making her sleep in a meeting room. It’s unacceptable.”

“Amy, you were mad at her ten minutes ago.” 

“Yes, but she’s your cousin, and she’s carrying a child. Baby. Foetus. Embryo. Zygote. Whatever.” 

“I think it’s a foetus,” Bonnie interjected. “Just. Ten weeks, give or take a day.” 

Clara cuddled into her cousin, humming thoughtfully. “So, am I going to be an auntie, or am I too centre-leaning to be considered for the position?” 

“Shush, you.” 

“Seriously! Please,” Clara begged. “I’ve always wanted to be an auntie, except my mum and dad decided to crush my dream.” 

“Clearly you were so much to handle that they couldn’t bring themselves to have any more kids,” Amy teased. “Poor you.” 

“Same applies to you,” Clara shot back, and Amy laughed. “Honestly, Bon… just, know that you’re welcome here for as long as you need.” 

“Thanks,” her cousin said, with a small smile. “And… sorry. Again.” 

“Don’t be.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you can trust her?” Amy asked later that night. It was almost midnight, and Bonnie was asleep on the sofa, making small snoring noises as she laid curled up into a protective ball, so the two of them were sat at the kitchen table with mugs of hot chocolate. “How do we know we aren’t going to wake up tomorrow morning and find she’s cleared us out?” 

“We don’t,” Clara said with a shrug. “But I just… I couldn’t leave her there, Amy. She was just so… cocky, and arrogant, and then she fell apart when we actually started talking about things. I think the spell wore off and she needed someone to help her get out of there.”

“Doesn’t mean that that someone has to be you, though.” 

“I know, I know,” Clara exhaled slowly. “I just think she really deserves a second chance.” 

“As long as you’re careful,” Amy cautioned, looking at Clara with concern in her eyes. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or for her to exploit you and John again.” 

“Don’t you think I’m scared of that too?” Clara snapped, then sighed. “Sorry.” 

“I know you’re worried, but you don’t need to be a bitch,” Amy said, rolling her eyes. “Have you heard from him since… well, since?” 

“He texts a couple of times a day, checking in. Other than that… not really. I guess I’ll find out what’s going on when I go into work next week.”

“I thought you got fired.” 

“Well, I thought you did as well, but John messaged saying that we’re both to go back in, so I’m really hoping he’s sweet-talked Missy into something.”

“Well,” Amy raised her eyebrows in surprise. “We can but live in hope.” 

“I can’t lose him,” Clara said in a rush, looking down at her mug as she made the unwilling confession. “I can’t watch him drink himself to death.” 

“That’s on Bonnie, Clara.” 

“No, that’s on me.” 

“How is it on _you_?” 

“Because I’m the idiot that crashed into his life and got myself comfortable. I’m the idiot that won his trust and let him open up to me.” 

“Clara,” Amy told her sternly. “This is _not_ your fault. OK? Bonnie was responsible for the article, yes, but _he_ relapsed. That was his choice. That was _his_ lapse of judgement. That was nothing to do with you. You didn’t stand over him and force a can of Fosters down his neck.” 

“I guess,” Clara ran a hand through her hair, fighting back tears. “I just worry.”

“I know you do, but it’s unnecessary,” Amy assured her. “He’s nuts about you. If you tell him to stop drinking – or, y’know, repeat what happened in Blackpool and scare him so much he swears to stay sober, cos _god,_ Oswald, you’re really one for theatrics – then he’ll stay sober.” 

“Do you really believe that he’d do that for me?” 

“I have eyes, don’t I?” Amy rolled them, to prove her point. “I’ve seen you together. He’s properly heart-eyes at you. He’d do anything you asked, no matter how ludicrous.” 

“Don’t be daft,” Clara denied, feeling her cheeks flush. “He’s still in love with his wife.” 

“His _dead_ wife.”

“Amy, don’t go there.” 

“Not going anywhere. Just reminding you.” 

“Well, I’m not going to do anything stupid and romantic, and I doubt he will. Let’s see if we still have jobs first, and then see what happens after that, but he is _just a friend_.” 

“You’re a pair of prats, you know that, right?” 

“You might’ve mentioned it, yeah.” 

“Just checking. I reaffirm that statement,” Amy winked. “Now, who’s gonna get up early to dash to Sainsbury’s to get Bonnie an Easter egg? No guest of mine is going without on Easter Sunday.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John always knew it would end like this: that his own psyche would drive him to the brink of self-destruction. At least Clara is by his side... or is she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance...

John was not, at first, immediately sure where he was. He had been at work, and now he was here. Wherever “here” might be. It was cold, and it was dark, and it was-

He took half a step to his right in an attempt to ascertain his location, and his foot slipped out from underneath him, sending him pitching sideways into what seemed to be an abyss. He cried out in a panic, hands scrabbling for purchase around him, and he hauled himself back at the last instant, his shout dying in his throat as his vision finally cleared and he took in his surroundings. Darkness in front of him, yes, but darkness that reflected the stars and the lights of the city. It took him a moment to understand. Not darkness at all, but the river. That was the river, which meant he was perched precariously on the side of one of London’s bridges, and had he been less panicked he might have been concerned with ascertaining which one. At that present moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was clinging to the masonry behind him, his fingers numb from the chill of the wind. Why was he on a bridge? 

“You’re here because of me.” 

Oh, god. He’d gone mad. He’d definitely gone mad, because there was Clara, floating in front of him over the open expanse of the Thames, and glowing with a faint luminescence.

“Urm,” he said uncertainly, trying to look nonplussed. “Not sure about the floating thing.” 

“I’m a ghost, idiot,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him teasingly. “It’s what ghosts do.” 

“Right,” he nodded, as though the matter made sense. “Why are you a ghost, exactly?” 

“Bloody hell, John,” Clara rolled her eyes. Not-Clara. Ghost-Clara. This was all getting a bit _A Christmas Carol._ “You’re being very slow. When do people normally become ghosts?” 

“When they’re… dead?” 

“Ten points to the suicidal Glaswegian.” 

“I’m not suicidal.” 

“You’re stood on the edge of a bridge, in the dark, overlooking the Thames and hallucinating me as a ghost.”

“I’m not suicidal, I’m just having a breakdown,” he argued, because he was almost definitely sure that the stress of the last week had finally got to him, and this was some kind of episode. “Hence the hallucinating. Did you have to be a ghost though?”

“Why wouldn’t I be a ghost?” 

“Because you’re not dead?” 

“And, that’s minus ten points from the suicidal Glaswegian.” 

John’s stomach dropped at the implication of her words. “Urm,” he stammered. “Urm, one, I’m still not suicidal, thanks, and two, you’re definitely not dead. We texted each other this morning.” 

“Did we, though?” 

“Yes, we did,” John said patiently, trying to ignore the panic clawing its way up his throat. “You’re fine. You’re with Amy. It’s Easter Sunday.” 

“And look, I’ve risen again,” Clara grinned, then held her arms up and adopted a scary expression. “ _Wooooo_.” 

“This isn’t funny.”

“No, it isn’t.” 

“So, knock it off. You’re alive. I’m not stupid, Clara, I know you’re alive. I’ve… we’ve…” 

“We’ve…?” 

“I’ve kissed you. Or you kissed me. Whichever. It was a pretty convincing kiss if you were a hallucination.” 

“Oh, John,” Clara’s smile faltered, her eyes growing sad. “We have a problem.” 

“No, we don’t. Don’t even say that. We’re friends, aren’t we? I know I messed up, but we can fix that.” 

“Does it seem real to you?

“Does _what_ seem real?” 

“The life you’re living right now.” 

“It… it _is_ real.” 

“It’s a dream, John. You dreamed it for yourself because the truth was too terrible.” 

“What truth?” he asked, but somehow he knew what she was going to say. He felt his heart stop, and his breathing catch as he waited for her response, and that millisecond felt like an eternity. 

“I died, John,” she said softly. “I died, outside Coal Hill, on that first day we met.”

“No,” he said at once, shaking his head. “No, no, no, you didn’t. Why would you even say that? This isn’t funny, Clara. This isn’t funny, subconscious brain. This is some sick joke.” 

“John,” she said gently, reaching out to take his hand, and when her palm met his there was a jolt of ice-cold energy and an image in his mind’s eye. _There was a squeal of brakes, and a scream. He was running towards the road, and there she was, sprawled out on the tarmac, covered in blood as her eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing. He tried to go to her, tried to push through the crowds, but they wouldn’t let him past, wouldn’t let him apologise, and so he’d fallen to his knees where he was and wept._ “I’m sorry.” 

“Why are _you_ sorry?” he asked, the vision dissipating, and he realised he was crying. This couldn’t be real. This had to be some kind of… god knows what, a psychotic break, perhaps, or a nightmare. He’d never been desperate to find himself having a psychotic break, but in that instant he prayed to a god he barely believed in that none of this was real. “This is all just… no. You’re not dead. You’re _not._ ”

“Why do you think Missy doesn’t like me, John?” Clara asked. “She can’t see me. I’m a construct in your head, and she knows you have to stop seeing me or you’ll be carted off to god knows where and locked away. She’s tolerated your quirks for far too long, and this… well, causing a woman’s death is traumatic. You had to cope somehow… but that doesn’t mean she approves.”

“Clara, this is insane… what about Amy? I’ve met Amy. I’ve met Amy with you.” 

“You’ve met Amy, yes. To apologise. To try and make amends.”

“Clara, this is… this is bloody insane! You’re not dead, I refuse to believe that!” 

“Would it matter even if I wasn’t?” Clara asked, raising her eyebrows. “After all, you’ve destroyed everything. You relapsed. You said awful things. Do you really think I’d forgive you after that?” 

“Yes!”

“You’re wrong.” 

John’s heart broke, and he put his hand on his chest subconsciously, as though trying to hold himself together. He’d always feared hearing those words, and now… well, even if this was a psychotic break, even if Clara was still alive, he knew deep down that she would never forgive him for his callous behaviour and his cruel words. He had ruined the last good thing he had, and now… now he was alone once again. 

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Clara said, and her ghost genuinely appeared contrite. “But you were heading for self-destruction anyway, and… well, I guess the spirit world figured you might need a pretty face to look at as you fell apart.” 

“You are definitely a construct of my subconscious,” John said, forcing a chuckle. “But, then again, you really are that vain.” 

“You know me,” she tipped him a wink. “Narcissism is totally my forte.” 

“ _Do_ I know you?” he asked in desperation. “At all? I mean, dead or otherwise… I thought I did, but I was wrong. I thought you’d forgive me, but…” 

“It’s not your fault, John,” Clara said kindly. “Lesser men than you have deluded themselves over me. And lesser women.” 

“Look, that’s not helping,” he told her, trying to make sense of the situation. “I thought spirits were meant to be benevolent.”

“Oooh, are you accepting my ghostly presence _now_?” 

“I don’t know, are you going to drag me down to hell?” 

“Maybe,” she winked. “Maybe not.”

“That’s _really_ not helping.” 

“Sorry,” Clara looked contrite. “I really am, John. I know this can’t be easy for you.” 

“I’m stood on the edge of a bridge talking to an apparition. Nothing about this is easy.” 

“Except the way out,” she told him, smiling kindly. “We both know it’d be easy. Peaceful.” 

“The way out?” 

“There’s one way down, John,” she told him sombrely. “And that’s… well.” She gestured to the Thames, flowing sluggishly below them and glimmering with the lights of the city. It was beautiful, and it was lethal, and John couldn’t bear to look at it. He closed his eyes to the world around him, concentrating on the beat of his own heart, steady and strong, and regulating his breathing as he tried to think. 

John realised that he had always known it would come to this. From the first moment he had met Clara – or not met Clara, because who knew anymore? – he had known that she would consume him, mind and body, until there was nothing left. Not his sanity. Not his sobriety. Not his soul. He had known that, and he had willingly let her do so, because she was beautiful, and she was kind, and he made him feel something he had not felt since River. 

Could it be he’d hallucinated her? Could it be he’d lied to himself for months on end, desperate to cling to the last shreds of hope that he’d saved her from herself in the wake of her boyfriend’s death? She was far too vibrant, in all his memories, to be a ghost, and yet he knew that he would never construct a fiction for himself that was encumbered with mediocre, dull characters. He was capable of denying the truth, that much he knew. God knows, he’d done it for weeks after River’s passing, and he was sure he could do it again. This was a death he had – or had not; he was no longer sure of the veracity of Ghost-Clara’s statements – caused, and the weight of it on his conscience would be enough to drive him to madness, that much he knew. 

She couldn’t be dead. He told himself that, and he clung to that thought in desperate optimism. But the weight of Clara alive – alive, and with him, and smiling – was equally enough to cause him to lose the last vestiges of his sanity, because she was an addiction that had consumed him. She was addictive, and she was lethal, and he’d allowed her to destroy him, certainly, but the truth was, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. She was beauty, she was grace, and she was his downfall. He’d known that from the beginning. He’d known that from the first words she’d spoken to him, but he’d allowed himself to fall in love with her in a way he had sworn not to do. Because when he loved, it was all-encompassing. When he loved, it drove him to the brink of madness. When he loved, it moved him to do things that frightened him, and it broke him when it was taken away. 

And this time it had been taken away in a way that was, perhaps, crueller than River’s death. Because Clara would never forgive him – real or not, her ghost was right about that. He’d hurt her beyond reconciliation, and she would never trust him again. To see her living on without him was unthinkable. To see her happy and living on without him… he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

He realised in that instant what a fool he had been to never tell her how he felt. Had he told her, perhaps things could have been different, and he wouldn’t have found himself here, coming to an inevitable conclusion as he steeled himself for what was to come. He had a brief, fleeting image of kissing Clara again, of her in a white dress, and of a child with dark eyes, and then it was gone. Taken from him, along with everything else concerning that maddening, impossible girl. 

Death had already taken and consumed everyone he loved. It was his turn. 

He opened his eyes and looked at Clara’s ghost, who was smiling at him with the most beautifully sincere, sad smile he’d ever seen. “So,” she said quietly. “I’m assuming you’ve made your choice.” 

“I have.” 

She held out her hand to him, just slightly out of reach, and John stepped forwards, the water rushing up to meet him.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up from nightmares is never easy. Waking up from nightmares and realising Clara Oswald is still alive, however...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, that was a nasty cliffhanger, wasn't it? ;)

John sat bolt upright in bed, his breath coming in uneasy gasps as he looked around the darkened room in a panic, the image of falling still vivid in his mind’s eye. He tried to focus on the sunlight that was creeping in around the edges of the curtains, so he got up and crossed to the window, drawing the coverings aside and looking out at the familiar, mundane view in an attempt to calm himself down. A nightmare. It had been a nightmare. Nothing worse than a manifestation of his darkest fears, but enough to make him realise what a fool he’d been, and spur him into action. Well. It would, once he’d stopped shaking. He clenched his fists, then unclenched them and put his head in his hands, counting his breaths and trying to calm his racing heart before it could beat out of his chest.

_In. Out. In. Out._

Still struggling, he opened the window wide and inhaled lungfuls of the chilly morning air, feeling his breathing gradually return to normal. He was alive. Clara was alive. He knew that. He was absolutely certain of that, but still a part of him felt the irrational need to check up on her. More than that, the need to be honest with her, because god knows, the thought of losing her was too much to bear – and, if it had driven him to leap from a London bridge in his nightmares, then what could it do to him in his waking hours?

He would tell her how he felt, and if she didn’t feel the same then… well, at least his conscience would be clear. At least he could cling to her as a friend, or so he hoped. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about, and the entire matter terrified him, but he knew it needed to be done. Approaching something akin to calmness, he entered the bathroom, flung the window open, and shaved with trembling hands before picking out an outfit he knew Clara liked – Doc Martens, faded black hoodie, black velvet jacket that seemed much too impractical for April – all the while praying that she would respond to his feelings in kind, and not leave him foolish and embarrassed and alone.

Driving anywhere in London on Easter Monday was a foolish idea, even before rush hour, so he headed for the Underground, appreciative of the early morning peace and quiet of the city as he walked, hands in his pockets, trying to tell himself over and over to be brave. Yet, as he descended to the platforms, he felt uncertainty creep in, and by the time he was on the Tube and speeding towards Shoreditch, he was genuinely contemplating abandoning the entire quest and heading home instead. 

 _No,_ he told himself sternly, trying to mentally emulate Clara’s teaching voice. _That nightmare came about because you were scared of losing her, the one good thing you have. So be a man and tell her how you feel or you’re going to lose her forever._  

“Right,” he said aloud as he disembarked, earning himself a strange look from a busker. “Morning,” he mumbled, in an attempt to redeem himself, before slinking past the youngster and heading towards the escalators with a mounting sense of nervousness. “Bollocks. Bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks._ ” 

 _I’m out of my mind._  

_I’m insane._

_She’ll laugh in my face._

_She’ll say no._

When he reached the city streets once more, he took a deep breath and began to tramp determinedly towards Clara’s block of flats, ignoring his inner pessimist as he tried to reassure himself that everything would be alright. It was a lie, that much he knew, but it was a lie he was only telling himself, and it was stopping him from panicking, so he reasoned that it couldn’t be all that bad. It kept him going as he walked, and as he struggled up the stairs of Clara’s block, and if his heart was racing then, only he could hear it, and it didn’t matter. 

Arriving at Clara’s front door, he dithered over ringing the bell. _It’s early, and they’re probably going to be less than thrilled to see me anyway, and this whole thing is a terrible idea, I should just go home and try to move the hell on with-_

His finger rang the bell of its own accord, and he looked down at his hand in shock. 

 _Well,_ he thought to himself, somewhat deliriously. _Shit._  

There was the sound of footsteps, and then the door swung open, and there she was. Clara. Wrapped in a preposterously large dressing gown, her hair a mess, and her eyes still half-closed with sleep. She’d never looked more beautiful to him than in that instant, because she was alive, and she was stunning, and she was real. 

“John?” she asked, and her brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at him in confusion. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s eight in the morning.” 

“I…” he began, then realised he had no idea what to say to her. All his years of being paid to talk, and yet words failed him when he needed them most. “I needed to…” 

He couldn’t find the words, so he stepped forward and kissed her before he could stop himself, his hands cupping her cheeks as though she were made of glass and his lips brushing hers with the utmost shyness. When he pulled back a moment later, she was blushing, and her eyes were – to his horror – full of tears. She took a step back, closing her eyes tightly and shaking her head. 

“Don’t,” she said simply, her voice quieter than he’d ever heard it before, full of a pain he didn’t quite understand. “Please, don’t.”

“What?” he asked, not understanding what she meant. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t do that, because you don’t mean it.” 

“Of course, I mean it!”

“No, you don’t,” she said softly, looking up at him with eyes full of sadness. “And it isn’t fair on me.” 

John’s heart skipped a beat as he realised what she was insinuating, but he needed to hear her say it. “What do you mean?” 

“Like you don’t know.” 

“Like I don’t know what?” 

“Jesus, John!” she cried, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m in love with you, and I have been since that bloody night at the fireworks party, and I know you don’t feel the same, and this is killing me, but I can’t give you up for love nor money. More fool me.”

John couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle, relief surging through him, but Clara only scowled, and reached up to punch him in the arm. 

“You _prick_ ,” she spat bitterly, scowling up at him. “You absolute prick, this is the first time you’ve bothered coming over since you turned up drunk and called me a slut, and you couldn’t just _say hello,_ oh no, you decide to kiss me and then when I tell you I love you, you… you bloody _laugh_!” 

“Clara…” he managed after a moment. “Clara, I’m here because there’s something I want to say to you.”

“Let me guess, you’re firing me, and the kiss was to keep me sweet.” 

“No,” he said in a gentle tone, becoming abruptly serious. “I’m not firing you. Really, quite the opposite. Oh, Clara Oswald. My Impossible Girl.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, and I’m bloody terrified of losing you, so if you’ll have me… would you do me the singular honour of being my other half? God, that sounded awkward, you’re just… I just… Clara. Please, love, would you?” 

Clara gaped at him in silence for a moment, then frowned and said: “you’re in love with me?” 

“Madly. Deliriously.” 

“Since when?” 

“Same as you, probably. The fireworks.”

To his considerable surprise, Clara thumped him in the arm again. He made a tokenistic noise of complaint. 

“You _arsehole_ ,” she exclaimed, without malice. “You complete _arse._ You’ve been in love with me for _months_ and you didn’t tell me?!”

“To be fair, you didn’t tell me either!”

“That is _totally_ beside the point.”

“Look, is this a yes? Or is this you telling me to sod off?”

“Yes, it’s a yes, you idiot,” Clara told him, beaming from ear to ear, and John relaxed, pulling her into his arms and kissing her again. She loved him. She loved him, and she was his, and nothing could come between them now.

“I knew it,” crowed a familiar Scottish voice from behind Clara, and the two of them broke apart to take in the sight of a triumphant Amy, who was jigging up and down on the spot and fist-pumping the air with both hands. “About time, too. Rory owes me fifty quid.” 

“He… what?” Clara asked, arching an eyebrow delicately. “Why?” 

“Because I bet him that John would be the one to step up and say it first, and I was right,” Amy smirked smugly. “Now. Since John’s here, he’s coming in, and I’m making you both breakfast. God knows, you’re going to need it.” 

“Why?” John asked stupidly, and Clara rolled her eyes. 

“Fuel for all the sex you’ll be having,” Amy shot back, and John raised his eyebrows. “Obvs.”

“Oh, my god,” Clara muttered, turning a fiery shade of red. “Amy, I hate you. Go and cook, OK? Please and also thanks.” 

Amy’s smirk only intensified, but she vanished towards the kitchen nonetheless. “Well,” John said, chuckling. “At least someone’s happy.”

Clara laughed, looking up at him and hooking her arms around his neck. “I’m happy,” she breathed, kissing him again. “Scared, but happy.” 

“Scared?” he asked, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “You don’t need to be scared.” 

“I know,” she sighed, looking embarrassed. “But the things I love tend to… well.” 

“Clara,” he said sternly, determined to reassure her. “I am not going to die, or leave you. I promise.” 

She hummed a non-verbal assertion and nuzzled her head into his chest, and he allowed himself to relax in her embrace, enjoying how she felt in his arms. As they stood there in calm tranquillity, the smell of bacon wafted towards them from the kitchen, along with the sound of Amy singing to the radio, and just as John was considering going to offer culinary assistance, the door to the lounge slammed open, and a dark-haired woman sprinted past him towards the bathroom. 

“Ah,” Clara said, pulling away from him and looking inexplicably guilty. “Forgot about that. Pregnancy hormones and fried foods. Not a good combination.”

“Pregnancy hormones?” John asked in bafflement. “Clara, who…” 

There was the sound of vomiting from the bathroom, and Clara shot John an apologetic look. “I will be right back, and I will explain everything then. Go and chat to Amy, OK?” 

“But-”

Clara stepped away from him and headed into the bathroom, leaving John to wander into the kitchen in search of something to do. Whoever the girl was, she’d… no. He must’ve imagined it. 

“Ah, John,” Amy said enthusiastically, looking over at him from where she as frying bacon on the stove. “Just the man I wanted to see.” 

“What about Rory?” 

“Never mind him,” Amy told him, closing the kitchen door and smiling at him somewhat menacingly. “I wanted to say just one thing to you. Just one tiny little thing.” 

“Urm,” John stammered, as Amy stepped away from the cooker and approached him, glaring at him intimidatingly. “What-”

“I have known Clara for well over ten years,” Amy began in a calm, measured tone. “I have seen that girl go through hell and come out fighting. I have seen my fair share of her useless boyfriends and hapless girlfriends, and I have kicked the arses of several of them. But I haven’t seen her like this since… well, since she was with Danny. So, I want you to know that if you break that woman’s heart, then god help me, I will make your life a living hell."

“Amy-” 

“I will destroy your job,” she told him, with absolute sincerity. “I will destroy your family life. I will destroy your worldly goods. I will make you wish you’d never been born.”

“ _Amy-_ ” 

“I will break your goddamn legs, and remove your testicles with a rusty knife. And that will only be the beginning of the physical torment I will inflict upon you. Do you understand?” 

“I understand,” John squeaked, terrified by Amy’s words. “I very much understand.” 

“ _Goooood_ ,” Amy said brightly, her threatening demeanour instantly dropping as she flashed him a dazzling smile, patted him on the cheek, and went back to frying bacon. “Then we’re fine.” 

Before John could form a coherent response, Clara had stepped into the kitchen with a somewhat sheepish expression. “Sorry about that,” she said to John, before looking past him to Amy. “Bonnie asks if she can skip the fry-up for avocado on toast.”

“Sure, if you make it. Kinda busy here.” 

“Hang on,” John held up a hand at the mention of the familiar name. “Bonnie? As in, your cousin Bonnie?”

“Yep,” Clara cleared her throat and stood a little taller. “She’s staying with me for a bit.”

“But she…” 

“I know what she did,” Clara said firmly, meeting John’s gaze and shooting him a warning look. “But she’s my cousin, and she’s apologised, and she’s scared, and she’s having a baby, and she’s got no money, even after doing the interview, so she’s staying here for now. If you can’t move past that, then congrats, this relationship is already doomed.” 

“Clara,” he said in a gentle tone, getting to his feet and pulling her into a hug. “She’s your family, OK? If you’ve forgiven her and moved past things, then that’s what counts, and I can, too. Can I say hi to her?” 

“Yeah,” Clara looked somewhat surprised by his offer. “She’s in the lounge, but the smell is making her nauseous so you’ll have to go to her.” 

John nodded and got to his feet, slipping out of the kitchen and heading towards the living room. He knocked twice on the closed door, then waited for Bonnie’s response.

“Yeah?” a voice called, and he stepped inside with a slight sense of nervousness.

Both of the doors to the balcony were open, and Bonnie was leaning against the balustrade, framed by the early morning sun. Her back was to him, but when he cleared his throat she spun round at once, her face a mask of terror as she realised who he was. He was struck by how very similar she was to Clara: same dark eyes and dark hair, same small stature, but equally there was something different in the way she held herself. Alike, and yet not. 

“Hello,” he began, smiling nervously, holding up his hands in a placating, non-threatening gesture. “I’m John.” 

“Clara’s not-boyfriend. I know.” 

“I think I might be her sort-of boyfriend now, actually.” 

“About time, too,” Bonnie smiled, the fear leaving her face. “I know why you wanted to say hi and… I’m sorry for what I did. Clara explained it all, how badly I hurt you both. I messed up, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” he crossed the room to where she was stood, and leaned on the balcony beside her, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his skin. “You know, if anything, you helped me realise a few things.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really,” he nudged her very gently with his elbow. “So, I owe you for that. Dramatic as you were, it helped.” 

“Glad to have been of service,” Bonnie said cheekily, and he laughed. “So, you and her?” 

“Yep, that’s a thing as of about ten minutes ago. Miracles do happen,” he enthused. “What is it the young people say? ‘Started from the bottom, now we here’?” 

Bonnie laughed. “From a stranger to a friend to a colleague to your sort-of girlfriend,” she teased. “Not bad, eh?” 

At the word “colleague,” John’s face fell. “Oh hell,” he said, thinking aloud. “There’s just one problem.” 

“What?” 

“Missy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, eh?


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telling Missy was always going to be difficult...

Clara woke up in John’s arms the next morning, nuzzling into him sleepily and yawning. Waking up in someone’s arms wasn’t a new experience, but it had been so long since it had last happened that she couldn’t help but smile, pressing a kiss to his chest through the cotton of his T-shirt. 

“Morning, you,” he hummed, grinning at her bed hair, and she poked her tongue out at him before yawning again, rolling her shoulders to try and stretch her muscles. “Sleep OK?”

“You’re the guest,” she mumbled, scooting up the bed so that she could tuck her head under his chin and snuggle into him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

“Possibly,” he agreed. “Been a while since I’ve done this. I was going to offer to bring you breakfast, but I didn’t want to intrude.” 

“You’re in bed with me,” Clara teased, shifting so that she could press a kiss to his jaw. “I’m fairly sure that counts as ‘intruding.’ Not that I’m complaining, of course, because this is a great cuddle, and having you here is wonderful… but good call on the breakfast front. Amy does have a tendency to wander around naked, so you’ve almost definitely dodged a bullet there, believe me. I’ll speak to her about that, though, so next time you stay over, you’ll be all clear to bring me food.” 

“That sounds nice,” John smiled, dipping his head and kissing her properly. “‘Next time.’” 

“Next time, you’ll bring me food,” Clara said hopefully, pulling away and attempting to look endearing. “Right?”

John laughed. “Alright, love,” he acquiesced easily, cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead. “I will. But today…” 

“Alright, alright,” she rolled her eyes and got to her feet, pulling on her dressing gown over her pyjamas and opening the curtains to let the morning sunshine in. “Bathroom is all yours after…” she squinted at the clock beside her bed. “Nine. Bonnie’s usually just about OK by then. Maybe wait ‘til five past, just to be sure.”

“Gotcha.” 

“Don’t go through my drawers, and don’t break anything,” she warned, shooting him a stern look, then headed towards the kitchen. This was… new. New, but somehow familiar, and it was a wonderful feeling to think that finally, after all this time, John was hers. Really, absolutely hers, and-

“So,” Amy interjected as Clara stepped into the kitchen, and Clara jumped. “Is he any good in bed?” 

“Oh, my god,” Clara groaned. It was too early to have to deal with Amy asking probing questions, especially if she had to deal with them prior to consuming coffee. “We did not… I didn’t… dear god, woman, he only asked me out yesterday!” 

“That’s never stopped you before, Oswald.” 

“Oh, my god. I hate you. Please stop talking.” 

“Well, is he? Come on, you spent all night together!” 

“Cuddling, yes. Kissing, yes. Anything else… we haven’t tried. He’s old-fashioned like that.” 

“Christ, you’re not gonna have to wait ‘til marriage, are you?” Amy made a face of abject horror. “Cos if so, get on that shotgun shit today, and Rory and I will totally be your witnesses.” 

“Amy…” 

“You haven’t had a decent shag since _last summer,_ ” Amy raised an eyebrow, looking pained. “Or, actually, any shags at all. Does everything still work? You haven’t-” 

“ _Stop. Talking._ ”

“I’m concerned for your sexual welfare,” Amy deadpanned, and Clara threw a tea towel at her head. “Hey!”

“Desist,” Clara said firmly, in her best teacher voice. “Everything still works, I have not forgotten how to insert Tab A into Slot B, and should I get stuck, I’m sure I can google it. Now can we _please_ stop talking about my currently non-existent sex life, and eat food?” 

“I already made coffee,” Amy said with indignation, and it was then that Clara looked down at the work surface and noticed three mugs of coffee arranged in a row, with a cup of green tea tacked on the end. “The grass water is for Bonnie.” 

“She won’t drink that.” 

“She’ll damn well try.” 

Clara laughed, touched by the gesture, and she wrapped an arm around her flatmate’s waist. “Thank you,” she murmured, resting her head on the taller woman’s shoulder. “Thank you for being chill about this. And for the coffee.”

“I’m always chill,” Amy retorted. “Chiller than chill, that’s me. Although, actually, not all that chill. I gave John the friendly reminder yesterday.” 

Clara groaned, clapping her hands over her face in embarrassment. “You did _not._ ” 

“Of course I did,” Amy looked wounded. “If he messes with you, I will destroy him. It’s absolutely fair enough. I’m not having anyone messing with my tiny little English teacher.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but-” 

“I swear I won’t mess with her,” John said from the doorway, where he was leaning against the wood in his jeans and T-shirt. He crossed the room, pulling Clara into his arms and pressing a kiss to her hair. The tiny, protective gesture made her heart flutter, and she fought to keep herself from blushing. “It’s taken me months to get this far; I’m not about to mess it up now.” 

“I know,” Clara told him, relaxing in his embrace and placing her hands over his where they were resting lightly on her waist. “I know you won’t. And so does Amy.” 

“Oh, I know alright,” Amy narrowed her eyes warningly. “It’s just a general part of the terms and conditions.”

“The _what_?” Clara asked in confusion. 

“The general terms and conditions of ‘So You Want to Date Clara Oswald.’ Rule one: do not fuck with her. Rule two: the sex better be mind-blowing, cos, if she’s unsatisfied, then she’s whiny, and I’m not dealing with that.”

Clara felt her cheeks turn pink, but was surprised when John laughed. “Understood,” he said cheerfully. “Very much understood. Do you want me to make breakfast? Something that’s pregnant cousin-friendly, obviously?” 

Amy hesitated for a moment, then cocked her head to the side, considering the offer. “Sure,” she decided. “I mean, you can cook, so that’s a huge plus.” 

Clara rolled her eyes, stepping away from John and reaching up to mess up Amy’s hair. “Behave, woman.” 

“Shan’t.”

 

* * *

 

As the three of them approached Radio TARDIS later that day, they were unsurprised to find a bevy of photographers crowding around the front entrance. Clara looked to John nervously, unsure of what to do, but he smiled encouragingly and stepped closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist in a careful act of reassurance. Despite his newfound happiness, he didn’t want the media knowing about them just yet, and this was a feasibly amicable gesture, particularly given Clara’s small stature. “It’s gonna be alright,” he murmured in her ear. “We’re gonna be OK, Clara.”

He led the way into the throng, elbowing blokes with cameras aside until the trio stumbled into reception, a touch ruffled, but otherwise unharmed. John dusted Clara down, then cast a perfunctory gaze over Amy, who looked mildly thrilled about the whole affair. “Are you OK?” he asked Clara. 

“Scared,” Clara confessed in a small voice, and the fear in her tone broke his heart. He stepped closer to her on instinct, understanding her terror. “Bloody terrified.”

“Of the press?”

“Of Missy,” she swallowed nervously. “She’s gonna go ballistic, isn’t she?”

“I won’t let her hurt you,” he said at once, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Or Amy.”

“Thanks for the sentiment,” Amy said with a grimace. “But I’ll be there beside you, kicking her arse to the curb if necessary.” 

John smiled, relieved to have Amy with them, and led the way to the studio. He knew Missy. He knew what she’d say, but he had to try to make her understand, nonetheless. He had to try and talk to her, to reason with her, at least – even if only to keep his own conscience clear. 

Stepping inside Studio 12, the three of them found Missy sitting perfectly upright in her chair and looking disconcertingly calm about their arrival. “Hello,” she said brightly, her eyes travelling from Amy to Clara to John, and then down to the pair’s clasped hands. She arched an eyebrow delicately, but her expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Well.” 

John took a deep breath. “Don’t start,” he began. “I know what you’re like, and just… please, don’t.”

“Why would I start?” Missy asked lightly, getting to her feet and approaching them. “Why would I start anything with you, John? Would it be about the fact that after the little slut sold you out to the press, she’s now here holding your hand? Would it be about the fact that she’s undoubtedly fucked you, and now she’s going to sell you out again? Would it be the fact that this entire thing has been a publicity stunt, to get you into bed so she can undoubtedly get knocked up and make a mint off of you in child maintenance?”

John blinked at her in horrified disbelief, taken aback by the casual cruelty of her words. He had expected anger, certainly, but not the vitriolic hatred spewing from her mouth, nor the murderous scowl that was creeping over her face. He’d prayed they could avoid this, but obviously not. “Clara hasn’t done any of that,” he said, as calmly as he was able. “She isn’t what you think.” 

“And what do I think she is?” Missy asked, cocking her head to the side and asking sweetly. “A fame-hungry little slut?”

“Stop calling me a slut,” Clara said defiantly, squaring up beside John, and he cursed inwardly. He’d hoped she’d hold her tongue, but that had been a naively optimistic thought. “I love him.” 

“His money, you mean.”

“I don’t give a shit what he’s worth,” Clara countered. “I give a shit about _him_.” 

“Of course you do,” Missy raised her eyebrows in melodramatic disbelief, then turned her attention back to John. “John, you’ve finally lost your mind. Can’t you see she’s going to destroy you? Can’t you see she’s going to tear you apart and sell you out to the vermin stood outside?” 

“She isn’t,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice low and calm. “I trust her. I love her.” 

“You loved River, and she destroyed you.” 

“She died.” 

“So might this one,” Missy’s eyes widened, and she pouted with faux sadness. “Oh wait. She won’t die before you, because she’s still a babe in arms, John. You’ll die first – undoubtedly of some awful malady on your honeymoon – and then she’ll inherit your entire estate, like the jammy little bitch she is. She’ll remarry within a year, just you wait and see.” 

“Missy,” John said through gritted teeth, feeling himself beginning to lose his temper. “ _Stop it_.” 

“Stop what? Telling you the truth?”

“It’s not the truth,” Clara said hotly. “You know it isn’t. You’re just jealous because you love him, and he’s never even seen you as anything more than a friend.” 

“Oh, don’t try to lie to yourself, poppet,” Missy tutted, with a look of innocence. “Dear me, with this level of delusion, I can see why your poor departed boyfriend took the easy way out.”

Clara lunged without warning – one second her hand was warm and soft in John’s, and the next, she was on the floor, Missy pinned underneath her as she gouged and scratched and hair-pulled to the best of her ability, screaming insults as she did so. Missy lay passively for a second, taking the blows, and then began yelling as well, wrestling with Clara on the carpet and attempting to roll on top of the smaller woman, hissing and spitting as they fought. 

“I mean…” he began, loathe to stop Clara in her physical quest for revenge. “She’s within her rights, but maybe we should intervene?”

“Agreed,” Amy concurred, leaning down and seizing Clara by her jumper, tugging at it ineffectually. “Oswald!” 

Clara took no notice of Amy whatsoever, and slapped Missy loud enough to elicit a _crack_ that made John wince. 

“ _Oswald_ ,” Amy said more loudly, yanking her friend to her feet and shaking her head at the tiny English teacher as she scowled at them both. Clara tried to lunge forward again, and Amy wrapped her arms around her shoulders to hold her back, shaking her head with resignation. “Christ, you’re worse than your bloody students.” 

“She started it!”

“Fair point,” John concurred, looking down at Missy, who had scrabbled into a crouching position and was panting heavily. “Missy?” 

She didn’t speak, but her eyes flicked to him, wide and afraid. He knew that she understood she’d crossed a line, and that suddenly she was scared of what he was about to do. 

“Get your things,” he told her, his fury dissipating and being replaced with an intense weariness. “Get your things and leave here, and don’t ever come back. If you come anywhere near either of us ever again, I will unleash the full might of Clara Oswald on you, and also the full might of the court. Do you understand?” 

Missy hesitated for a moment then nodded, scrambling to her feet as she did so. She seized her jacket and bag from under her desk, and then stood poised, evidently awaiting some damning final verbal blow. 

“Good,” John said curtly, determined not to give her the satisfaction of sinking to her vindictive, cruel level. “And if you breathe a word of this to the press, I will sue you for everything you have. I will rain hell on you until the end of time.”

Missy cast him a long, lingering look and then fled from the studio, the door slamming behind her on the way out. John let out a shaky breath, turning to where Clara was safely wrapped in Amy’s arms and letting his shoulders sag as the weight of what he had done settled over him. He locked eyes with Clara and watched the anger fade from her expression as she noted his distress, and she wriggled out of Amy’s grasp, flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. 

“John,” she murmured, and he could feel her shaking. “You didn’t have to… I didn’t expect you to…” 

“Shush,” he said firmly, clenching and unclenching his fists as the tension left him. “It was time she left. She wasn’t good for me, or you, or the show.” 

“She’s your best friend-” 

“Not anymore,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead to try and keep his composure, then looking up at his fellow Scot and offering her a nervous smile, knowing the show must go on. “So, Amy… how does producing sound?”


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Clara enjoy their first date in a place filled with memories, but will the past become too much to bear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I love you all!

Clara looked up at the house in front of her with a mounting sense of trepidation. It wasn’t absurdly large, rather a comfortable size, and the red brick façade was glowing softly in the warm amber light of the setting sun. There was a neatly mown front lawn surrounded by an elaborate metalwork fence, and a cherry tree was sending eddies of blossoms swirling onto the pavement with each gust of soft, spring wind. It was not, all in all, the kind of house she had pictured someone like John living in. Nor River, come to think of it. She’d expected something a little more… rough around the edges. 

“Are you sure about this?” she asked John uncertainly, still looking up at the house as she adjusted her satchel on her shoulder. “I know how much this place means to you… I don’t want to invade your space, or anything. Or River’s space.”

“What was it that you yelled at me last month? About my dead wife taking precedence over my living friends?” 

Clara felt her cheeks burn, and she cast her gaze down to the pavement in shame as she remembered their row. “Right,” she said in a small voice, scuffing a toe over the pavement. “I know I already said I was sorry, but still… I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” he said at once, and his hand found hers, and she relaxed fractionally as he ran his thumb over her knuckles. “I know. That wasn’t a criticism, that was just… you opened my eyes, Clara. You reminded me that I can’t let myself mope forever. I can’t shut you out of this place just because I once shared it with someone else. She wouldn’t want that.” 

“Sure?” Clara asked, finally looking up at him and still feeling somewhat unsure. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You haven’t done anything weird to prepare for my visit, have you?” Clara checked, narrowing her eyes. 

“Such as?” 

“I don’t know, turning all the photos round, or anything like that.” 

“Damn,” John deadpanned. “Want me to dash in and turn them all back?” 

Clara rolled her eyes, not entirely sure he was joking. “Hilarious.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking chastised. “No, I haven’t done anything weird. This was a happy home, then it was a sad home, and I want it to be happy again. I want to be happy here _with you_. I mean. Not all the time, you understand, I mean not that I’d object to that, I just don’t want you to think that I’m moving you in or anything… that would be nice and all, but I don’t want to treat you like a possession that can be moved around without consultation and besides, you have your flat and-” 

Clara stood on tiptoes and kissed him, smiling fondly as she did so. His concern was touching, even if he was inept at expressing it. “I know, you daft old man,” she assured him. “Are we going to go inside, or are we going to stand out here and hope that the carbonara cooks itself via the medium of telepathic intervention?” 

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m _extremely_ telepathic.” 

“Sure you are, wise guy,” she grinned, gesturing to the doorstep. “After you.” 

John nodded and approached the stained-glass front door, unlocking it and holding it open for Clara. “Milady.” 

“Dork,” she shot back, stepping over the threshold and taking in the bright, spacious hallway. Her eye was immediately drawn to a photograph at the bottom of a truly impressive gothic staircase, and she crossed the room to look at it, smiling as she recognised the subjects. “Your wedding day?” she half-asked, half-stated, and she heard John’s sad sigh behind her. “You both look so happy.” 

“We were,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “It pissed down with rain about ten minutes after that was taken, not that that spoiled our mood.” 

“Well, that’s something,” Clara rested her head against his shoulder, letting him have a moment. She heard him take a deep breath, his hand ghosting over her hip, and she understood what he needed, turning in his arms so that she was pressed flush against his chest, her arms encircling his torso and her head tucked under his chin. “I know.” 

“Know what?” he tried to scoff, but his voice caught on the question. 

“I just know,” she murmured, listening to his heart racing. “And it’s alright.” 

He held her then, and she could hear his breath hitching as he dissolved into tears. 

“I’m not here to take her place,” she assured him, softly. “I will _never_ do that. I promise you, John.” 

“I know,” he sniffed. “Sorry, I just… I’m an idiot, getting all…”

She pulled away enough to be able to look up at him, noticing the way his cheeks were burning and the embarrassment in his eyes. She reached up and cupped his face with a hand, catching a tear with her thumb, and she smiled encouragingly. “You can cry, John,” she told him. “You can do whatever you need. Would you like a moment on your own?” 

He hesitated for half a beat, then nodded. “Please,” he managed. 

Clara nodded. “OK. I’ll be in the kitchen. Which is…” 

He pointed towards a door at the end of the hall. “Through the lounge.”

Clara nodded again. “Good,” she said, with as much brightness as could be considered appropriate. “I’ll go and start on dinner.” She pointed down to her feet. “Shoes off, shoes on?” 

“Shoes off. Please.” 

She slipped off her brogues, arranged them neatly at the bottom of the stairs, and offered him a final smile before stepping into the lounge, taking in the comfortable looking Chesterfield sofas and luxurious wooden panelling. Her feet sunk into the expensive, plush carpet, and she wiggled her toes before heading into the kitchen, giving a low whistle of appreciation as she looked around. “Wow,” she said to herself, running a hand over the immaculate marble worktops. “Mega wow.”

Clara stood there in awe for a minute or two longer, appreciating the style and practicality of the room, then turned her attention to the task at hand: making dinner. Hunting through the cupboards, she located a saucepan, a frying pan, and a chopping board. She arranged the first two on the hob while setting up the latter on a worktop. Opening the fridge and finding it surprisingly well-stocked, she removed what she needed, arranged it around the chopping board, and then filled the saucepan with water and set it to boil. 

By the time John reappeared, looking calmer than he had when she’d left him, the spaghetti was cooking and the bacon was frying, and Clara was alternating between checking the small pieces of meat, ensuring they browned evenly, and beating the eggs and cream together to make the sauce. 

“Wow,” John said. “That is… impressively organised. I was supposed to be the one cooking, you know.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“I do,” he countered, coming over and cuddling her from behind. “I feel like an awful host.” 

“I like cooking!” Clara protested, swatting his hand away from the spatula propped on the side. “Besides, you needed a moment.” 

“Mm,” he looked abruptly ashamed. “Sorry about that… I didn’t mean to…” 

“Don’t apologise,” she said at once. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I do, though.” 

“No,” she insisted. “You don’t.” 

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Thank you anyway. You know, for understanding.” 

“I lost my boyfriend last year,” she reminded him flatly. “I know what it’s like.” 

“Clara, I…” he stammered, visibly thrown by her comment. “I didn’t mean… I don’t…” 

“Can we talk about something else?” Clara asked, regretting her the bluntness of her words. “Like, where do you keep your herbs and spices? Can’t really go looking; hands full, and all.” 

“Right,” he said, stepping away from her and opening a nearby cupboard. “What do you need?”

“Black pepper, garlic salt, mixed herbs, and paprika.” 

John blinked at her. “It’s _just_ carbonara.”

“Yes, and underseasoned food is the spawn of the devil. Seasoning. Now.” 

John poked his tongue out at her and handed her the appropriate jars, and Clara added small amounts of each by eye, before lifting the frying pan off the hob and adding the bacon to her mixing bowl.

“You make carbonara weirdly,” John said with a frown. “I thought-” 

“Would you like to go hungry tonight?” Clara asked sweetly, draining the spaghetti over the sink. “Because that can be arranged.” 

“Sorry,” John muttered, looking suitably chastised. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Plan. You could also fetch plates,” Clara told him. “That would be helpful.” 

“I can do that,” he said with relief, retrieving two and laying them out as she added the sauce to the spaghetti and mixed them together. “Eat at the table or eat in the lounge?” 

“Lounge sounds good,” she decided, plating up. “Bit less formal.” 

“True,” John fumbled through a drawer for cutlery, then picked up both plates and carried them through the adjoining room before she could object. “Looking forward to trying this.” 

“So you should be,” Clara teased, sinking down next to him and taking a plate and fork. “I mean, I’m not Nigella, but I’m not an _awful_ cook. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve never had any complaints, and no one has ever got food poisoning.” 

She idly twirled a section of spaghetti around her fork, watching as John did the same and then raised it to his mouth. He took a bite, and his eyes widened. “Holy crap,” he enthused, looking back at his plate reverently, then looking at Clara as though she were some kind of celestial food-bearing being. “That’s… wow.” 

Relieved, Clara started eating, feeling an irrational sense of pride that John liked her food. “Thanks,” she said, feeling abruptly shy. “Glad you like it.” 

By way of a reply, John scooted closer to her and carried on eating, nudging her thigh with his own. Clara cast her eyes down and concentrated on not spilling food on John’s – undoubtedly expensive – sofa, and, by the time she’d finished, John’s plate was all but licked clean, resting neatly on the coffee table with his cutlery arranged precisely at the three o’clock position. 

“You have to leave the plate, you know,” she joked, setting her own down beside his. “You did get that memo, right?”

“I did,” he mused, pulling her onto his lap. “But then a really beautiful woman made me really delicious food and I was moved to insanity by the flavour combination.” 

“You’ve been watching too much _Masterchef._ ” 

“Guilty as charged.”

Clara laughed, cuddling into him and sighing with content. “Food coma.” 

“Me too, but I’m making a selfless sacrifice by letting you sit on me.”

“Excuse me!” she protested. “I’m here because I was _bodily dragged._ ” 

“Complaints?” 

“None whatsoever,” Clara leaned up to kiss him, smiling as she did so. As she pulled away, her attention was captured by something over his left shoulder, and she stared at it in surprise. “You have a guitar?” 

John frowned slightly, twisting in his seat and following her gaze to where the black-and-white Yamaha was arranged neatly on its stand. “Ah,” he said, and she was surprised by how embarrassed he sounded. “I’ve got several, but the SGV’s one of my favourites.”

“The… what?” 

“The black-and-white one.” 

“Don’t patronise me. It won’t end well for you.” 

John looked apologetic, and gestured to the instrument as he explained: “That’s a Yamaha SGV 800. One of the first guitars I bought.” 

“Didn’t hurt, did it?” 

“Tiny bit.”

Clara smiled shyly. “Could you play something? For me?” 

“I… guess,” he shrugged, trying to downplay his enthusiasm at the prospect, but Clara knew him better than that. “You might have to get off my lap.”

Clara scooted back onto the sofa obediently as John got to his feet and retrieved the guitar, slinging the strap over his head and then sitting back down beside her, strumming an experimental chord as he did so. Clara tucked her legs underneath her as he began to play a simple, sweet melody that she didn’t recognise, keeping his eyes downcast as he did so. 

“What’s it called?” she asked, when he had finished picking out the hauntingly beautiful tune. 

“I think that it’s called…” he looked up then, meeting her gaze as one side of his mouth quirked up into a grin. “‘Clara.’” 

She smiled, flushing slightly as she looked to her lap, pleased. She’d never had a song named after her before, and certainly not one that beautiful. “Could you teach me how to play a little bit?” 

John grinned. “’Course. Come here,” he lifted the guitar to the side and opened his legs, patting the space between them, and Clara raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that look, woman.”

Clara giggled. “Sorry,” she arranged herself comfortably in front of him, and John placed the guitar on her lap, hitching the strap over her shoulder and arranging her hands over the pickups and neck. The instrument was warm against her abdomen, and John’s hands dwarfed hers as he positioned her fingers in a chord, guiding her other hand into a controlled strum. “How was that?” she asked, leaning back into him. 

“Not bad for a beginner,” he teased, letting go of her right hand so that she could strum again on her own. “You’ve got potential.” 

“I’ve got a great teacher,” she told him, strumming more slowly and adjusting her fingers. John let go of her hands completely, placing one palm on her waist as the other moved her hair to one side, and before she could tease him about the slow deliberateness of his actions, he had pressed his lips to her neck, and she felt herself melt. “OK, that’s nice…” 

He chuckled against her skin, pressing kisses from her shoulder to the edge of her jaw, and she wriggled free of the guitar, setting it aside and turning around on his lap so that she could kiss him more enthusiastically. “I thought I was teaching you the guitar,” he murmured between kisses. “Bad girl.”

“Is it my fault my teacher is distracting?” she asked, widening her eyes innocently. “No, it is not.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara accompanies Bonnie to her first ultrasound, dragging John along for moral support. However, the happy event serves as an unwelcome reminder of several hard truths...

Clara shifted uncomfortably in the regulation-issue plastic chair that was apparently the national standard for hospital waiting rooms. _Her_ back was beginning to ache, and she wasn’t even pregnant. Around her, the assembled expectant mothers who were perched on their own chairs looked even more miserable than she did, and that was fairly. 

From beside her, Bonnie elbowed her in the ribs. “Please stop fidgeting,” her cousin complained in an undertone. “I need to pee, and you jigging up and down like that is making it five hundred times worse.” 

“These chairs are uncomfortable,” Clara protested in a low voice. “Seems unfair on pregnant women to not provide, like… armchairs, or something.” 

“Point,” Bonnie acquiesced, glancing summarily down at the dog-eared copy of _Cosmopolitan_ she was skimming through, then returning it to the table beside her. “And the magazines are terrible.” 

“Tory Britain,” Clara said with a straight face. “If you’re stupid enough to get pregnant, you can damn well suffer through awful plastic seating and crap magazines. Because that’s the kind of grit that makes a mother.” 

Bonnie dissolved into giggles, then groaned. “Ow. OK, laughing not good for bladder. Laughing really not good for bladder. This is taking the piss, pun very much intended.” 

Clara checked her phone. “Not long now,” she assured her cousin. “They seem to be running pretty promptly, which is a nice change.” 

“They’d better be, because I’m starving.” 

“I can help with that,” John interjected from behind them, and they both jumped in unison, Clara turning in her chair to scowl at the Scotsman as he smirked at them, holding out two identical bars of chocolate. “Ladies.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Clara chastised, accepting the chocolate anyway, and watching as Bonnie did the same, tearing into the packaging like a woman possessed. “She could’ve wet herself.” 

“I very much doubt that,” John shot back, circling round the bank of chairs and taking the empty seat on Clara’s left. “But still, sorry.” 

“Th’ choc’late ’elps,” Bonnie said thickly, having rammed several squares into her mouth at once. “Ta.” 

“You do know she’s meant to be eating healthily, right?” Clara told John sternly, unwrapping her own bar and breaking off a chunk before continuing: “Chocolate isn’t healthy for mum or baby.”

“Sugary stuff can be good for ultrasounds,” John said by way of self-defence. “Gets the little one moving.” 

“And you’d know this… how?” 

John turned a fiery shade of red, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding looking at Clara. “Might’ve googled it,” he admitted, embarrassed, and Bonnie swallowed, gaping at him in surprise, the chocolate forgotten. “I was nosy.” 

Clara blinked at him. “That was…” 

“Really nice of you,” Bonnie said, before Clara could form a coherent, soppy thought, and Clara took the opportunity to eat another two squares of chocolate. “Thank you. And thanks for driving us. I’d have been happy to have got the Tube-” 

“Don’t be silly,” John shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.” 

Bonnie reached across Clara and squeezed his hand gratefully. “Thanks, all the same.” 

“Bonnie Ravenwood?” a nurse called from across the room, and Bonnie tensed up at once, her relaxed demeanour disappearing as panic set in. She smoothed out her chocolate wrapper, folding it and unfolding it, and Clara knew her cousin well enough to know she was nervous. 

“Hey,” Clara assured her, placing her own remaining confectionery into her handbag. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll be with you, and besides, it’s just an ultrasound.” 

Bonnie nodded tightly, getting to her feet and clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides as she looked down at her cousin in a silent plea. Clara stood up at once, with John mirroring the movement a moment later, and they followed her over to the nurse, who looked between the two women in stupefaction. 

“Which one of you is it?” she asked after a moment, frowning at them as she spoke, and Bonnie gave an awkward little wave, her other hand settling on her stomach reflexively; she hadn’t really begun to show that much yet, but Clara still smiled at the instinctive little touch. “Right. Is this your family? Will they be accompanying you?” 

Bonnie’s eyes flicked from Clara to John, and Clara nodded almost imperceptibly. Bonnie cleared her throat. “Yeah,” she said in a small voice. “That’s right.”

“Well, that’s nice! Come on through,” the nurse said, smiling kindly and leading them into a small, nondescript room that was painted a cloying shade of yellow, with uncomfortably optimistic posters tacked to the walls every few feet. Combined with the warm, electric glow of the overhead light, the entire effect was somewhat claustrophobic, and Clara took John’s hand as Bonnie hopped up on a mercifully comfortable-looking bed, toying with the edge of her top as the nurse beamed at her with relentless, forced cheeriness. “Right. Make yourself comfortable, and the technician will be with you in just a second.” 

Bonnie nodded once, and the nurse bustled from the room, leaving the three of them alone. “Not sure about the décor,” Clara said, grimacing, and Bonnie gave a quick, frightened smile. “Bon,” Clara sank into a chair beside the bed, taking her cousin’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “You’re gonna be fine, OK? You’re gonna see your little tiny small human for the first time.” 

“What if something’s gone wrong?” 

“It won’t have,” Clara soothed, as John stood behind her chair and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been sensible, it’ll be fine.” 

“I just…” 

The door opened and a young, rather nerdy looking man stepped inside, polishing his glasses on his scrubs as he did so. “Hello,” he began in a strong Welsh accent, putting his glasses back on and beaming at the three of them. “I’m Malcolm Taylor, I’ll be your technician today. You must be Miss Ravenwood.”

“That’s me,” Bonnie forced a smile, and Clara squeezed her hand again. “Hello. And please, call me Bonnie.” 

“Absolutely can do. Now, if you could roll your top up for me, we can get started.” 

Bonnie took a deep breath and rolled up her T-shirt, exposing the slight curve of her stomach. 

“Now,” the technician took a seat beside her, fiddling with the controls of his machine and then applying gel to Bonnie’s abdomen. “Try to relax for me, OK?” 

“I’m trying.” 

“You’re lucky to have your family with you,” Malcolm said brightly, in what Clara recognised as the standard, patronising “cheer-up” tone used by all medical professionals. It brought back uncomfortable memories, and she repressed a shiver. “Not all families are this close-knit. Have you got any children?”

This question was directed at Clara, who shook her head, taken aback by his directness. “No,” she said quietly, feeling a pang of sadness. “No, I don’t.” 

“Ah,” Malcolm beamed up at John. “First grandchild, eh? Always exciting!” 

Clara froze, feeling John’s grip on her shoulder tighten to the point of being uncomfortable. “He’s not…” she stammered, horrified by the assumption. “Bonnie and I aren’t… we’re not siblings.” 

“And he is _really_ not her dad,” Bonnie said, making a face of shocked amusement. “Think more along the lines of boyfriend.” 

“Gentleman friend,” Clara corrected, cringing at the term even as it left her mouth. “Definitely not my dad. Really, definitely not.”

“And I can attest to that, cos they snogged in front of me last night for a good hour,” Bonnie added. 

Malcolm turned a deep shade of maroon. “I’m so sorry,” he stammered, blinking rapidly behind his specs. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry…” 

“It’s alright,” Bonnie said cheerfully, her nerves having apparently dissipated in the amusement of the moment. “Can I see my baby, please?” 

“Right,” Malcolm said, looking a touch sheepish. “So your notes say you’re about twelve weeks?” 

Clara turned her head to look up at John, tuning out the medical conversation. He was frozen in shock still, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. She dipped her head and met his gaze, their eyes locking, and she realised that the emotion contained within their depths was… revulsion. Disgust. He was disgusted by the prospect of being mistaken for her father. “Hey,” she said softly, but he stared straight through her, and she sighed, turning to Bonnie. “Excuse us for second.” 

Before her cousin could object, she’d ducked outside with John, dragging him behind her and scowling up at him as soon as the door closed behind them. “What’s going on?” she asked in a muted, furious voice. “Why are you being weird?” 

“He thought I was your dad,” John said, shuddering. “Your _dad._ ” 

“So?” 

“So, how many more people are going to make that mistake?” John looked aghast. “How many more people are going to then assume I’m some dirty old pervert?” 

“You aren’t!” Clara said at once. “You’re a good man, and I love you, and that should be enough for you.” 

“But…” 

“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else has to say, you’re my boyfriend and-slash-or gentleman friend, and if people don’t like that, it’s their problem, and they can jog on. Stop bloody moping, OK? Bonnie needs us. He apologised, so move on.” 

John nodded mutely and allowed himself to be led back into the consulting room, where Malcolm was moving the probe slowly across Bonnie’s stomach. Bonnie herself looked slightly like she was about to cry, and Clara went to her side at once, taking her hand and interlacing their fingers. “Hey,” she said. “All OK?” 

Bonnie shrugged, turning her head away from the screen as Malcolm continued to trace long, practiced arcs across her exposed skin. 

“Bon, it’s gonna be alright,” Clara assured her, leaning down to press a kiss to her cousin’s temple. “I promise.” 

“You can’t promise that,” Bonnie muttered in a small voice. “You can’t-” 

“ _She_ can’t,” Malcolm said with certainty. “But I can. Bonnie, if you turn your head… you’ll see your baby.” 

Bonnie’s head snapped round, alighting on the screen and the grainy image revealed there: the curve of a spine, a tiny hand, and what was, even to the untrained eye, very definitely a face. “Oh,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh my god.” 

“One healthy little baby,” the technician beamed, looking a touch emotional. “Look at that. Saying hello.” 

Clara felt her heart both leap and break as she looked at the screen, watching the baby move. She’d dreamed of this, once. Dreamed of it for herself and her future partner: the magic of seeing their child for the first time, and filling in a future for the child once it had left her womb. She’d dreamed of being a parent and holding her baby to her chest, soothing them, guiding them, and adoring them.

She’d had plans, when she was at university: a five-year plan, and then later on a ten-year plan, both of them coming unstuck with her unexpected change of situation and her temporary-yet-not role as a nanny. She’d thought when she became a teacher that that would be it, and she could settle down at last, and yet… well, there’d been Danny, but she’d panicked and thrown that chance away, and now he was dead and her hopes rested on John. On John, who only minutes before had told her he loathed the thought of being mistaken for her father. Who’d told her he loathed being thought of as a dirty old man. Would he want to do this? Would he want to sit and hold her hand as they waited to hear their baby’s heartbeat? Would he want to be on nappy duty and night feeds and the school run? He’d told her once that he’d have loved children, but he had been younger when he nursed that dream, and now… now he would surely consider himself too old. This would have to be her lot. Living vicariously through Bonnie – and undoubtedly Amy, too, at some point – would have to suffice. She would have to learn to be happy with this. 

She took a deep breath, leaning down and kissing her cousin’s cheek as Malcolm flicked a switch and the sound of a tiny heartbeat filled the room. 

“This is really happening,” Bonnie breathed, and Clara laughed. 

“Yes, Bon. It is.”

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Clara said that evening, plonking down on the sofa with a bottle of apple juice and two wine glasses. Bonnie eyed them suspiciously. “You can’t have wine, so I’m not having wine. Figured the wine glasses are fancier.” 

“Right,” Bonnie narrowed her eyes as Clara poured the drinks, then accepted a proffered glass and took a long swig. “What do you know?” 

“OK, so don’t kill me, but I reckon you should tell Will. About the baby.” 

“That’s an abundantly terrible idea,” Bonnie said at once, looking horrified at the very suggestion. “He’d be mad, or worse, he’d want to like… I don’t know, marry me or something, and I’m not exactly the nice kind of girl that you’d want your son bringing home. Especially not given the fact that, you know, I’m already up the duff.” 

“Bon, you could do worse than him like… duty-marrying you. He’s loaded.” 

“Not that you’re shallow or anything.” 

“You know what I mean. He’d take care of you. _Both_ of you.” 

“Do you just want me out of your hair?” Bonnie took a sip of her juice and shot Clara a wary look. “Because if so…” 

“No!” Clara said, appalled by the accusation, and she took a sip of her drink before continuing: “I just think he seems like a pretty nice guy, and he’d like to know.” 

“I’m not morally obligated to tell him.” 

“I _know_ ,” Clara sighed. “I’m not saying that you _are_ , I just think it might be an idea to tell him and see what he says. I mean, you can always tell him to fuck off, if necessary. And, if _really_ necessary, Amy can kick his arse.” 

“True.” 

“Do you have his number?”

“Oh, my god, we are not doing this now,” Bonnie’s eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no. This is not a thing I’m dealing with now.”

“It doesn’t have to be _now_!” Clara rolled her eyes. “Just, do you, or not?” 

Bonnie went silent for a moment, then said unwillingly: “Yeah.” 

“Well then, text him and tell him you wanna see him tomorrow.” 

“ _Tomorrow?!_ ” 

“No time like the present,” Clara reasoned. “Text him.” 

“Clara!” 

“Bonnie, you can’t run away from things forever.” 

Bonnie sighed, reaching for her phone. “Fine. But you’re coming with me.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and Bonnie have to break the news of the pregnancy to Will - but how is he going to take it?

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bonnie muttered, putting her head in her hands and closing her eyes against the relentless, creeping progress of the minute hand on the lounge clock. Clara knew how she felt. With each passing second, she was growing increasingly restless, and increasingly sure this was a terrible plan. “Why are we doing this? This is a horrible idea. We’re going to die.”

“We are not going to die,” Clara forced herself to say pragmatically, rearranging the magazines on the coffee table for the hundredth time that morning, simply for the sake of something to do that didn’t involve biting her nails. “If he was a serial killer, he’d have already murdered us by now, and he hasn’t done that.” 

“I meant more that he might go totally psycho and turn out to hate children or something, but sure, serial killing works as well.” 

“Bonnie, you’re being overdramatic. It’ll be fine. _You’ll_ be fine.” 

“But what if-”

“John is downstairs in the car park, and Amy is contactable by phone if needs be. It’s going to be fine. We’ve got our Scottish bodyguard team assembled.” 

“Why the hell did we say to meet here?” Bonnie wailed in a stricken tone. “Why did we think that was a good idea? _Why?_ ” 

“Because you objected to crying and-slash-or making a scene in public, remember?” Clara arched an eyebrow in an accusatory manner. “It’s fine. Here is good because it’s my territory. I know where all the potential weapons are, and he doesn’t. Which definitely gives us a strategic advantage, don’t even try to deny it.” 

Bonnie chuckled drily, but her eyes betrayed her fear. “I’m still scared.”

“I know, Bon,” Clara sighed and sank down beside her cousin, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze of reassurance. “I’m right here though. We can do this together.” 

“Confuse him together,” Bonnie joked, and Clara laughed at the thought. “Poor guy won’t know what hit him.” 

“I bet his eyes nearly pop out of his head.” 

“It’s probable,” Bonnie smiled tightly, taking Clara’s hand and gripping onto it for dear life. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For agreeing to do this with me.” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to abandon you,” Clara rolled her eyes, but she was touched by the sentiment, nonetheless. “But you’re welcome.” 

“I-” 

There was a loud, confident knock on the front door, and Bonnie’s eyes widened in terror. “Oh my god,” she squeaked, scooting back on the sofa and seizing a cushion, which she arranged over her stomach and clung onto tightly. “Oh, _shit_.” 

“Bonnie, it’s going to be OK,” Clara said in the most soothing tone she could manage, getting to her feet and dusting herself down, running a hand through her hair and hoping she looked presentable. “I’ll go let him in, stay there.” 

Bonnie nodded once, and Clara went out to the hall, taking a deep breath to try and steady her nerves. _This is fine,_ she told herself, determined not to let her panic get the better of her. _This is totally fine. Talking to the man I cheated on my boyfriend with. Talking to the man who’s the father of my cousin’s baby. This is so totally fine. Come on Oswald. You can do this. You've got it all under control._  

She inhaled deeply then arranged her face into an approximation of a smile, before opening the door and finding herself confronted with an enormous bouquet of flowers. “Urm,” she began uncertainly, and they were moved to one side, revealing the handsome, exuberant face she recalled from the previous summer. “Hi, Will.” 

“Ah!” Will grinned, all but bouncing on the spot with excitement. “Bonnie, it’s wonderful to see you again. I’ll admit, I was beginning to lose hope that you’d ever call, but then… well, it was a truly lovely surprise to see your name pop up on my phone!”

Clara just nodded, deciding not to attempt to explain on the doorstep, and instead she moved aside, gesturing for the relative stranger to come in. He smiled in response to her invitation and stepped over the threshold, leaning in for a kiss that she deflected by turning her head to the side. _Ah,_ she thought to herself, resisting the urge to shudder. _This might be difficult._  

“Will,” she began, closing the door behind him in an attempt to avert the attention of any nosy neighbours. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s pretty big, so you might need to sit down.”

“This sounds intriguing,” he said brightly, beaming at her in an entirely unabashed manner that suggested he wasn’t taking the matter seriously. “Though, could I advise taking the flowers first? I’d hate to drop them in sh-” 

Bonnie stepped out of the lounge at that moment, and the bouquet slipped from Will’s hands. Clara swore and dove for the lurid arrangement, catching it before it hit the carpet, and then straightened up, watching as Will looked between the two of them in astonished horror, his head snapping back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.

“There’s…” he stammered after a moment, eyes widening to a truly enormous size as he continued in a strangled tone: “There’s… two… you… I don’t…”

Clara was struck with the sudden urge to giggle, and she bit down on her lip, attempting to keep her composure and studiously avoiding meeting Bonnie’s eye – she knew the fatality of doing so all too well. “Hello,” she managed after several seconds, once she was quite certain she wouldn’t burst into gales of laughter. “I’m Clara Oswald. We, ah… _met_ last summer.”

“Hello,” Bonnie copied her style of speech, adding an awkward little wave. “I’m Bonnie Ravenwood. We shagged about twelve weeks ago.” 

“We’re not twins,” Clara said hastily. “Just to pre-empt that question. Cousins. Genetically weird cousins.” 

“You said I seemed familiar,” Bonnie shrugged, gesturing to Clara then herself. “Well, this would be why.” 

“There’s two of you,” Will said faintly, and both women rolled their eyes. “There’s…” 

“Yes,” Clara said patiently. “You’ve…” 

“…shagged us both,” Bonnie finished, smirking as she spoke. “Really, don’t look so shell-shocked. I know a lot of men who would jump at the chance to do so.” 

“Bon!” Clara protested, unsure whether to laugh at or chastise her cousin. She settled for a chagrined smile. “Behave.” 

“Well, they would!” she argued, poking her tongue out. “I bet John would.” 

“That is not…” Clara began, trying her hardest to look affronted but chuckling at the thought. “That is not the _point._ ” 

“Sorry, I just…” Will said weakly. “Two of you.” 

“Yes,” both cousins said in unison. 

“I slept with both of you.” 

“Independently of each other, yes,” Bonnie clarified. “She was first.” 

“And you… planned this?” Will asked, narrowing his eyes at Bonnie in an accusatory fashion. 

“No,” Clara said at once. “It was more of a happy accident. But you might’ve felt drawn to Bon because of me, so really I’m responsible for that, and you’re very welcome.”

“Right,” he took a deep breath. “This is… weird.” 

“It’s about to get a whole lot weirder,” Clara told him, resignedly. “Go into the lounge, and I’ll stick the flowers in the sink.” 

Will nodded in a haze of confusion, following Bonnie into the lounge as Clara headed into the kitchen. Turning on the cold tap, she half-filled the washing up bowl and stuck the flowers in it, knowing Bonnie needed her and knowing that there would be time later to find a vase if necessary. For now, the priority was breaking the last bit of news to Will. Anything else could wait. 

Clara returned to the lounge and sank down on the sofa beside Bonnie, looking warily over at Will, who was perched on the extreme edge of an armchair, looking as though he might bolt for the door at any moment. 

“This is bloody weird,” he muttered, and Clara was unsure whether he was talking to himself or them. Possibly both. “I mean… what are the odds… I never would’ve thought… how are you two even… _Jesus._ ”

Clara forced herself to smile, looking from Bonnie to Will. “Well,” she said, in as bright a tone as she could manage. “There’s something else you need to know.” 

“Jesus,” Will paled. “Please tell me there isn’t a third one who wants to shag me.” 

“No,” Bonnie said in a tremulous voice. “No, it’s still just us two. It’s ah… it’s… well.” She lifted up one of the magazines Clara had strategically placed, extracting a small, black and white image from underneath it and passing it to Will, who took it and squinted down at the fuzzy, unclear picture. 

“That’s a baby,” he said after a moment’s uncertainty. “That’s a… that’s a baby.” 

“Yep,” Bonnie chewed her lip, one hand coming to rest on her stomach. “It’s mine.” 

“Ah,” he blinked at her in polite bafflement. “Congratulations. I hope I didn’t get in the way of anything.” 

“You didn’t,” Bonnie cast her gaze down to her lap, and Clara reached over and took her hand for support. “Actually, you sort of… enabled.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s your baby.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“That’s… it’s… well, we… I didn’t… it’s yours.” 

Will went absolutely silent for a moment then asked in a low, calm voice: “This is my kid?” 

“Yes,” Bonnie mumbled, and Clara felt a sudden stab of panic that he might be about to go nuclear. “Yes, it is.” 

“I’m gonna be a dad?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, that’s…” To Clara’s considerable consternation, Will beamed widely, getting to his feet and crossing the room to Bonnie. “That’s wonderful!” 

“It… is?” she asked, as he leant down and flung his arms around her, exchanging a surprised look with Clara over his shoulder “Oh, it is. OK.” 

“I’m gonna be a daddy!” he enthused, and Bonnie laughed in relief. “Oh, my goodness, this is just… a baby! You’re having a baby!” 

“You’re not… mad?” 

“Why on earth would I be mad? I mean, this is a surprise, but the most wonderful kind! I never thought… oh, my stars, I never thought… a _baby_!” 

“Yes, a baby,” Bonnie laughed, getting to her feet and allowing him to hug her properly. “A very small baby at present, but a baby.” 

“What are the arrangements? _Are_ there arrangements yet? Is it a boy or a girl? Not that I mind of course, but I like to plan ahead… and names? Are there any names in the works?” 

“Urm, there aren’t any yet, I don’t know, and no,” Bonnie looked to Clara for support, but her cousin only shrugged, taken aback by the exuberance of Will’s reaction. “I’m just crashing here at the moment; my last place didn’t work out.” 

“Well, you could move in with me, if you liked. Start a little nursery.” 

“That’s kind, but ah… no, thank you,” Bonnie said firmly. “I need my own space. And I’m sure you need yours.”

“Well, of course,” Will nodded. “I’d like to be involved though.” 

“That’s a given,” Bonnie assured him, as Will placed his palm on her stomach, looking reverently at the slight curve of her abdomen. “Just… you know, we aren’t eloping, got it? No shotgun weddings.” 

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Babies are not good foundations for marriages. My parents would attest to that. But oh, I’m going to spoil this little one rotten. And you.” 

“Will,” Bonnie rolled her eyes. “I don’t need spoiling.” 

“You’re carrying a child,” he raised an eyebrow. “ _Our_ child. So yes, you do. I’m going to look after you, OK?”   

The gravitas of his words settled over Clara like an oppressive, grief-laden cloud as she was reminded of what she’d lost with Danny’s death. She got to her feet and mumbled an apology, then slipped out to the kitchen, taking out a vase and filling it with water, before turning her attention to Will’s flowers, snipping away at the cellophane wrapping and then beginning to trim away leaves and excess stem. For the second time in as many days, she was reminded that she may never have her own family now, and for the second time in as many days, she attempted to think positively about her situation. 

It wasn’t that she was unhappy for her cousin – quite the opposite, in fact. Will had responded to the news in the best possible way, and that was a relief for both Clara _and_ Bonnie. It was more that… well, more that she would now have to face him – probably often – as he enthused over nurseries and names and outfits and birth plans, as all the while she had guilt weighing heavily on her conscience. For she couldn’t deny it – this was the man with whom she had strayed, and this was the man whose presence and touch had lingered on her mind until she’d needed to tell Danny, and he’d…

“Hey,” a quiet voice said behind her, and Clara jumped, dropping the tulip she was holding and swearing almightily as she took in the figure of Will stood in the doorway. “Bonnie said you needed to talk to me about something.” 

“Did she now?” Clara said bitterly, bending down and retrieving the bloom from the lino, cursing her cousin to hell and back as she did so. “For fuck sake.”

“You seem angry.” 

“I am.”

“At her?”

“No.” 

“At me?” 

“No,” she sighed, unsure how to elucidate her feelings. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s… difficult.” 

“Can you explain?” he asked, his brow furrowing a little as she ripped the tulip’s leaf off and stuffed the offending flower into a vase. “The last thing I want is to cause problems or awkwardness between you guys.”

“It’s not…” Clara put her scissors down and took a steadying breath. “It’s not to do with Bon.”

“Right.” 

“It’s to do with… us. Last summer.” 

“Ah.” 

“I urm…” she closed her eyes, hating herself in that instant. “I had a boyfriend. When we… you know. Slept together.” 

“I thought you might’ve,” Will admitted, taking in Clara’s incredulous, accusatory look and adding: “I mean, I didn’t realise until the morning after, when you bolted. Else I wouldn’t’ve… I would never knowingly sleep with anyone who had a boyfriend, I’m not like that, Clara. I’m sorry. Are you still together?”

Clara shook her head, trying to work up to saying the words aloud.

“Sorry,” he said sincerely. “I never intended to…”

“He’s dead,” Clara said in a rush, not looking at Will as she spoke. “We argued that day and that’s why I ended up in that bar and then the guilt… the bloody guilt of it… I rang him and he was coming over and he got… there was a car… he got…” 

“Jesus,” Will said, his face falling as he understood. “I’m so sorry, Clara.” 

“It’s not your fault,” she attempted to shrug it off, but her face crumpled and she began to cry. “It’s not…”

Will hovered uncertainly, then pulled her into an awkward hug, patting her back as she sobbed against his chest. “I’m still sorry,” he murmured, letting her weep for a moment in companionable silence before asking: “Is having me around going to be too much?” 

“No,” she said at once, shaking her head and sniffing. “No, it’s nice, and you need to be here for Bon and the baby just… just this is something I need to deal with in my own time, that’s all.” 

“Can I do anything to make things easier?” 

She shook her head again, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand and feeling a swooping sense of embarrassment. “I’ve got… well, I’m seeing someone and trying to move on, just… well, the guilt’s there, you know? It pops up sometimes, quite uninvited. Rude of it, really.” 

“Of course,” he said understandingly, and she looked up at him and received an apologetic grin as she met his gaze. “I’ll do everything in my power to be helpful, OK?” 

“That’s not nec-”

“Clara, let me do that. Please.” 

“Fine,” she mumbled, sniffing again and hoping her eyeliner was still mostly intact. “Maybe you could start by making tea.” 

“Now, _that_ is absolutely something I can do.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally accepts Kate's invitation to dinner, and he decides to take Clara as his plus one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write. Especially... well, you'll see.

Clara squeezed John’s hand reassuringly from her seat next to him in the back of the Uber, and he shot back a grateful smile. “Why the nerves?” she asked quietly, leaning over and placing her head on his shoulder, knowing that the physical contact would reassure him. “You’ve known Kate… how long?” 

“A good forty years,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Used to babysit her. But just… I don’t know.” He sighed deeply. “I haven’t spent time with her socially in years. Not since it all fell apart.”

“Well, she invited us over,” Clara reasoned, looking up at him and smiling cheekily. “I’d say that’s a good start to socialising, really. Indicates she wants to… you know, actually spend time with us.” She grinned up at John in the half-light of the cab, and he rolled his eyes. 

“True,” he acquiesced in an unwilling tone, then cast his eyes down, looking at his lap and blushing slightly. “I don’t know. I just…” 

“You’re worried she won’t like me?” 

“How could you _possibly_ know that?” he asked with incredulity, meeting her gaze in stupefaction, and Clara winked. 

“Telepathy,” she deadpanned, then caught his bemused look and explained: “Well, I presume that she loved River, because everyone loved River, and that you’re worried she’s going to compare me to her, à la Missy, and end up hating me. Again, à la Missy.” 

“Actually, it was the opposite,” he confessed, after a moment’s consideration of her words, and she could tell how much it pained him to admit that. “The complete opposite. They couldn’t stand each other.” 

“What?!”

“Well, they were both very strong personalities. They tended to… well, they tended to clash. Loudly. One would start talking, then the other would interrupt in a louder tone, then the other would try and one-up that, and… well, shouting would ensue,” John chuckled sadly. “It was… interesting, especially in public. We got thrown out of a few restaurants.” 

“Why are you telling me this now?!” Clara asked in a panic, abruptly worried that Kate would hate her. “I’m loud and obnoxious and annoying and oh _god,_ she’s going to hate me, isn’t she? She’s going to think I’m awful, and there’s going to be a row, and-” 

“This is why I didn’t mention it,” John mumbled, looking abashed. “She’s not going to hate you, Clara. She tried to help me find you.” 

Clara blinked at him in surprise. “John, why are you so abundantly shit at telling me these things?”

“Shush,” he chastised. “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah, _as we approach her house_!” 

“Clara, she’s going to love you. OK? Don’t worry.”

“I’m worrying.” 

“I know you are, daft girl,” he tilted her chin up and kissed her carefully, knowing not to smudge her lipstick or else he’d invoke her wrath. “But it’s going to be fine.” 

“It better be,” Clara mumbled, turning a delicate shade of pink as the Uber driver shot them a shocked look in the rear-view mirror, but before she could say anything cutting to him, they had pulled up at what she took to be Kate and Jaq’s place. Peering out the window, she looked up at the modern, stylish building, half clad in warm golden wood and strategically uplit to accentuate the architecture, and felt a sense of wonder. “Wow.” 

John climbed out of the cab and circled around to Clara’s side, opening her door and offering her his hand. “Milady,” he joked, as she giggled, placing her hand in his and stepping out. He kissed her again quickly, and then held up a hand to the driver. “Thanks, mate.” 

As the cab drove off, Clara looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. “Did you do that just to piss him off?” 

John widened his eyes in an expression of faux innocence. “Would I do that?” 

“Yes.” 

“OK, yes, but he was giving us weird looks,” John argued, and Clara laughed, linking her arm through his and letting him lead her to the front door. “So, really, he deserved it.”  

Clara grinned, leaning into his side and feeling his arm snake round her waist, his hand settling protectively on her hip. “You’re bad.” 

“You love me.” 

“Do I?” she asked, as he rang the doorbell, and he looked down at her with his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, you do, Miss Oswald,” he growled, playfully, booping the tip of her nose. “Now, behave.” 

Before Clara could think of a comeback, a tall, blonde woman wearing an impeccably tailored shirt and trouser combination answered the door, beaming at them both brightly. “Oh, my god,” the stranger enthused at once. “You look _sickeningly_ good together.” 

John grinned then, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, and Clara felt her spirits lift – this could only be a promising start. “Thanks,” he said, easily. “Kate, this is Clara. Clara, this is Kate.” 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Kate beamed, shaking Clara’s hand in an oddly formal gesture. “I’m so glad he finally got his arse in gear and asked you out.” 

“It was really more of a mutual thing,” Clara shrugged. “There was punching involved. And I may have called him an idiot.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Kate tipped her a wink as John blushed, and Clara laughed. “Come on in, dinner’s nearly ready.” 

Stepping inside, Clara shrugged off her coat and looked around at the obsessively tidy hallway, somewhat in awe of the neatness of the house. “This place is…” 

“Weirdly tidy,” John interjected, removing his own coat and handing both his and Clara’s to Kate. “Why is it so tidy?” 

“Two neat freaks live here,” Kate told him, hanging both jackets in a cupboard and then gesturing towards an archway. “Please, come on through. Can I offer drinks?” 

“Urm,” John began, looking to Clara uncertainly. “I…” 

“Non-alcoholic only,” Kate assured him, ushering into an enormous lounge adorned with three cream sofas that Clara was sure would comfortably accommodate most of her class. “Fruit juice, Coke, water?” 

“Coke, please,” John said with relief, sinking down onto a sofa and then looking around the room with an appraising look. 

“Urm, same,” Clara added, taking a seat beside John. “Thanks.” 

Kate smiled and disappeared towards what Clara assumed was the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone in the cavernous room. Clara followed John’s gaze to where a black-and-white photograph stood on a side table, and she looked closer, smiling at what it depicted: a little girl of no more than four or five, with a head of fair hair, stood beside a man with a huge moustache and a police uniform. The little girl was holding his helmet and smiling up at the man with adoration, and the pride in his eyes as he looked down at her gave away the subject matter. 

“Kate and her dad?” she realised, and John nodded. “Did you know him?” 

“Yeah, he was… well, he was a good friend, back in the day,” he smiled, sadly. “He was a good man. He-” 

Before John could finish the sentence, Kate reappeared, holding aloft a tray with three glasses of Coke, and grinning in a way Clara couldn’t quite interpret. 

“Here we go,” she said brightly, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “And…” 

A small, black Labrador puppy bounded into the room, and Clara’s heart melted. “Oh, my god,” she breathed, as the tiny dog busied itself with sniffing her shoes, before turning its attention up at her and yapping happily. She immediately reached down and busied herself with stroking the puppy, whose tail began to thwack against the floor contentedly. “It’s… oh, my god. _So_ tiny _._ ”

John rolled his eyes impatiently. “Kate, why do you have a small dog?” 

“This is Ally.” 

“That doesn’t answer my…” John broke off, looking horrified. “Oh, dear god. Please tell me you didn’t name the dog after your dad.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Kate grinned mischievously. “ _Jaq_ named her after my dad.” 

Clara was barely listening. Her attention was captivated by the puppy licking her ankles and thrashing its tail in absolute contentment. 

“Clara,” John said, then apparently realised she was paying him no attention whatsoever. “Clara?” 

“Who’s a little precious?” Clara cooed to the Labrador. “Who’s a little precious puppy? Who’s a good girl? You are! Such a good girl! Aren’t you just so gorgeous?! Aren’t you a precious little darling?! Such a good doggie!” 

“You can pick her up,” Kate told her, and Clara scooped the puppy into her arms at once, lifting her onto her lap and petting her enthusiastically. “Isn’t she just the cutest?” 

“Kate,” John said measuredly, and Clara turned her attention to him, noticing his eye roll and feeling the puppy licking her fingers. She rolled her eyes in reciprocity and went back to petting the dog. “Why do you have a puppy?”

“Because Jaq wanted one, and-” 

“She tends to give me what I want,” a voice interjected, and Clara looked up to take in the sight of Kate’s wife, leaning in the doorway in a flowing red dress that matched her lipstick perfectly. “Hello, I’m the wife.” 

“That’s disingenuous, dear, you’re not just my wife,” Kate pouted. “This is Jaq.” 

“I’d urm,” Clara stammered, the puppy on her legs going berserk at the sight of its second owner. “I’d get up but…” 

Jaq laughed. “No, it’s OK,” she grinned understandingly. “Puppies are definitely valid reasons not to get up, especially one as precious as Ally. You must be Clara. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Clara smiled, and Ally clambered off her lap, heading towards John, who stared at her with mildly horrified concern. “This idiot is John. I don’t know if you’ve met.” 

“We haven’t,” Jaq told her, then addressed John directly: “It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Likewise,” John said gruffly, as Ally climbed onto his lap. “Eh, wee one, I’m not for sitting.” 

Ally looked up at him and wagged her tail. “I think she likes you,” Jaq mused. “She’s an excellent judge of character.” 

“Wee one…” John began again, pointing sternly at Ally. “I’m not a-” The puppy licked his finger, and his expression softened. “Ach, OK, but don’t go telling anyone.” 

“You’re a big softie,” Clara teased, reaching over and petting Ally behind the ears. “It’s adorable.”

 

* * *

 

As the four of them finished dessert, Kate turned her attention from John to Clara with the kind of look that made Clara feel somewhat ill at ease. It was a look she knew she gave her students – one that meant, “I know something about you that you think I don’t.” God only knows what Kate knew about her, and the uncertainty of that made Clara’s heart race.

“So,” the police officer said in a light tone. “I hear that Bonnie Ravenwood has defected from Truth or Consequences.” 

“Urm,” Clara said uncertainly, unsure where the topic was going, and feeling a nagging sense of alarm. “Yes, why?” 

“What’s the story there?” 

“Kate,” John growled warningly, holding up a hand. “I know that you know the answer to that, so I’d like to suggest you get to the damn point.” 

“Right.” Kate looked a touch apologetic, her cheeks flushing. “We happen to know that she’s currently looking for a job, and a role has come up with one of our retired commanders. He needs a personal assistant to help with… well, just boring day-to-day admin, really.” 

“And you think Bonnie would be suitable for this… why?” 

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” Kate said bluntly, her expression perfectly calm as she spoke.

“Kate!” Jaq protested, looking apologetically at Clara. “Sorry.” 

“By placing her under the supervision of a former commander, we can keep an eye on her,” Kate said, pragmatically. “We can monitor what she’s doing, and keep her close to us.” 

“Right,” Clara frowned slightly. “But she’s… the baby…” 

“That wouldn’t be an issue,” Kate assured her. “Alec is perfectly flexible with the hours available, and he pays competitively. She could work from home. She could have her _own_ place, not just your sofa.” 

“How do you…” 

“I work in intelligence,” Kate reminded her. “We keep tabs on people of interest.” 

“And Bonnie… is of interest?”

“She was part of a left-wing anarcho-communist group, of course she’s of interest.”

“Do you _have_ to talk work?” Jaq asked, looking embarrassed by Kate’s forthrightness. “Couldn’t we just have left it at a job offer? That might’ve been a touch politer.” 

“I’m just providing context!” Kate protested. “I…” 

“You won’t need to keep tabs on her,” John interrupted, his expression fierce. “She’s a good kid, Kate. She made some mistakes, but haven’t we all?” 

“I know,” Kate told him calmly. “I just…” 

“She won’t cause you any problems,” John affirmed, his eyes narrowing in a way that Clara understood to be a non-verbal warning. “I can assure you of that. The job offer sounds good; Clara, can you run it past her?” 

“Sure,” she blinked slightly, both surprised and touched by his defence of her cousin. “I absolutely can.” 

“Excellent,” John smiled. “Now…” 

Whatever he was about to say was forgotten as Ally tumbled into the room with a pair of socks clamped in her mouth, and the dinner party dissolved into chaos.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sick of the constant "are-they-or-aren't-they?" debate in the tabloid press, Clara decides to take matters into her own hands...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling generous this week, so have a bonus chapter!

John was stalking around Tesco Metro like a man on a mission, not least because it was half term and the shop was full of overexcited children who were shrieking at an unreasonably high volume. He’d been dispatched by Clara in search of bread, milk, and tomatoes, but he felt that returning with only those items may be in some way insufficient, and thus as he passed a brightly coloured stand covered in bunches of flowers, he shifted his shopping basket to his left hand and snagged a bouquet of roses with his right, knowing Clara would appreciate the gesture. Pleased with himself, he headed to the tills and found himself queued beside a rack of magazines and daily papers, and, as he waited, he glanced idly at the lurid-coloured glossy covers of the former, and the stark black-and-white headlines of the latter.

_CORBYN’S PLOT TO BRING IN MIGRANT WORKERS._

_FURY AT BIAS ON BBC TV DEBATE._

_RECORD NUMBER HIT BY 45P TOP RATE OF TAX._

_Boring,_ he thought to himself, rocking back on his heels and rolling his eyes, sick of the election coverage. _One more week of this hell, and then it’ll all be over._  

His eyes skimmed along the row of anti-Corbyn headlines and alighted on _The Sun._  

_B.B. SEEDY: Beeb star: I DID perform sex act in the undergrowth on a teenager._

John shuddered at the thought, then he noticed the small image above the main headline. 

It was of him and Clara, taken from their interview with Rigsy weeks before.

He felt his heart stop, and he leaned closer, squinting at the text that accompanied it: _Dan Wootton asks: are they, or aren’t they?_

He wanted to buy the damn thing, just to know what the reporter’s conclusion was, but equally he wasn’t entirely willing to spend 40p on what would undoubtedly be a paper full of hateful lies and slanderous gossip. Before he could stop himself, however, he reached down and grabbed a copy, stuffing it into his basket, and then heading to the self-checkout lest anyone be tempted to judge him for his act of perceived narcissism.

He trudged back to Clara’s, desperate to find out what the article said, but equally aware that being papped reading a tabloid that contained an article about himself would only make him look bad, so he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore his growing sense of uncertainty, knowing he needed to wait until he arrived back in the relative safety of Clara’s flat. 

He knocked softly when he reached her front door, and she answered almost at once, her face breaking into a dazzling smile as she took in the enormous bunch of roses he had picked out. “John!” she said, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink, and he knew she was pleased by the surprise. “You didn’t need to… I don’t expect… you…” 

“I wanted to,” he murmured, stepping inside and kissing her gently as he pressed the bouquet into her arms. “You deserve flowers.” 

“You’re sweet,” she sniffed them appreciatively, her cheeks still flushed and her eyes bright. “I’ll get a vase.” 

John nodded, then extracted the paper from his carrier bag as soon as she’d vanished from sight. He headed into the lounge, flung himself onto the sofa, flicked through to the appropriate page, and started to read: 

_The are-they, aren’t-they chemistry going on between JOHN SMITH and his frankly jaw-dropping co-presenter CLARA OSWALD of Radio TARDIS fame is driving us all at The Sun HQ to distraction. While we can see the appeal of Oswald, we’re not entirely sure what the allure of Smith might be, particularly after his past public antics, and we wonder whether there’s something going on that we don’t know about…_

_The flirting between the pair is a staple of their show, but their refusal to discuss their personal lives is maddening journalists everywhere, myself included_ _. We thought we’d scored a hat trick back in April, until it turned out that Miss Oswald is one of a near-perfect pair, and the real deal’s refusal to dish any dirt is slowly driving us insane. However, my fellow columnist Rod Liddle has speculated that Oswald may be seeking a father figure, although I’m unconvinced by that idea. However, if Smith is taking on a paternal role, and Oswald is single, I know a large proportion of the office who would be very happy to woo her_ – _with Smith’s approval, of course…_

“What the _fuck_?” John spat, as Clara returned with a vase of water and affixed him with a look of confusion. “That’s…” He seemed at a loss for words. 

“John?” she asked, frowning down at him. “Why are you reading the _Sun_?” 

“We’re in it,” he said, darkly. “We’re mentioned by their lovely, lovely showbiz editor.”

“We… are?” Clara’s eyes widened in panic, and she set the vase down on the coffee table with shaking hands. “What does it… my students… what…” 

John’s stomach dropped. He’d known, of course, that when he’d invited Clara into his world and placed her in the public eye that she would be under scrutiny by her school, her students, and their parents, but and the fiasco with Bonnie nearly cost her both jobs last time. And the line had been crossed again. She didn’t deserve to be discussed in such a way. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that was stemming from the words “father figure,” and instead handed the paper to Clara.

“This is bollocks!” she said a moment later, her voice furious. “This is absolute bollocks… what’s the ‘appeal’ of you? Oh, I don’t know, what _is_ the appeal of a kind, wonderful, sweet man who plays me songs on the guitar and buys me flowers? No idea. Absolutely _none._ ” 

“What about…” his throat closed up at the words. “The… you know. ‘Father figure’ bit?” 

“You’re not my father figure,” she assured him fiercely. “I don’t usually make out with my father figures.”

 “Sure?” he teased, and she rolled her eyes. “Just checking.” 

“You’re my boyfriend,” she made a face, and his heart lurched until she explained: “Although that word needs updating. ‘Partner’? How’s that?” 

“That works for me,” he told her with an easy shrug, then lowered his gaze. “So, urm… I’m not… you’re not… bothered?” 

“By?” 

“Them thinking I’m your father figure?” 

“Well, it’s annoying, and it’s rude, especially as I _have_ a father figure. You know. My actual father. Who’s useless, yeah, but… still my dad. But why would it bother me?” 

“I don’t know,” John’s voice broke, and his shoulders slumped. “Don’t want people thinking…” 

“…thinking I’m a golddigger. We’ve had this discussion, John. I don’t give a shit what people think of me.” 

“I do.” 

“Well, don’t,” she smiled, and some of the discomfort weighing on his conscience eased. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he mumbled back, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. “Just don’t like the bastards thinking ill of you.” 

“ _Nolite te bastardes carborundorum,”_ Clara joked, and John chuckled at the words. “I am _so_ good at Latin.” 

“Truly incredible at Latin,” he deadpanned. “Look, not to nag, but you’re s-” 

“John!” she protested. “It really doesn’t bother me. OK?” 

“But…” 

“Jesus wept, John, you aren’t my father figure, and the opinion of some jumped-up little twat who writes for the _Sun_ is very low down on my priority list. I’m nuts about you. Always will be. Now, can I sit on your lap, or would that be too father-daughter of me?” 

“Don’t joke.” 

“Don’t be so serious,” she scooted over and clambered onto his lap before he could protest, nuzzling into his chest. “There.”

He smiled despite himself, putting his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Holding her in his arms like this felt like the most natural thing in the world, and for him, it was. Loving her was euphoric and all-consuming and beautiful, but sometimes he felt the memory of River settling over his shoulders, and, in those moments, Clara would always know, and she would always allow herself to be held, like a physical talisman against the demons of grief which waged war in his mind. Holding her was his anchor to reality. Holding her was his protection from the reality that existed outside the two of them, and outside the here and now. 

“Thank you,” John mumbled into her hair. “For being amazing.” 

“I’m not amazing,” Clara denied at once, placing one hand on his sternum and huffing softly. “If I am, it’s facilitated by you, so I have you to thank.” 

“Don’t be…” 

“Shush,” Clara said sternly, taking out her phone. “Now, we’re going to put an end to these rumours once and for all.”

“We… are?”

“Yes, we are,” she opened her camera app, and John realised her intentions. 

“No,” he said at once, shaking his head. “No, no, no.” 

“John,” she sighed. “Look, we’re going to keep getting shit like that unless we actually deal with the rumours. And _this_ is dealing with the rumours.” 

“I… guess,” he said reluctantly, mulling over the idea but already knowing that she was right. “Fine. What do you want me to do?” 

“I mean,” Clara chewed her lip as she considered the issue. “I would say kiss my forehead, but that could be misconstrued as ‘fatherly,’ so how about a proper kiss?” 

“You owe me for this,” he grumbled, but Clara only winked at him, adjusting the focus of the camera. “Big time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she poked her tongue out and then kissed him, and he was only dimly aware of the shutter clicking, because Clara kissing him did things to his brain he didn’t fully understand. She pulled away and examined the result, smiling happily and turning the screen towards him. “How’s that?” 

He looked down at the picture, and he had to admit it looked good: the two of them, framed by the midday sunlight, with Clara smiling into the kiss. “Nice,” he acquiesced, only a touch unwillingly. “Very nice.” 

“Excellent,” she turned her attention to the phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard, and when she showed him the screen again he realised he was looking down at what even he could recognise as a tweet. “What do you think of the caption?”

_Hey, @danwootton, having a lovely time with my ‘father-figure’ today! #notmyfatherfigure #gotoneofthosethanks #smithwald_

He snorted with mirth, both amused and horrified by her boldness. “You’re awful, you know that?” 

“You might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” she grinned, and hit _send._ “Now. Flowers. That was my intention before you distracted me with terrible newspapers.” 

“My apologies.”

“Do you want a cup of tea?” 

“God, yes, please,” John grinned as endearingly as he could manage. “Got any biscuits?” 

“Don’t push your luck, sunshine,” she teased. “I might flower-arrange in the kitchen while the kettle boils. Don’t wanna get thorns everywhere, Bonnie might object due to her, you know, not being a fairytale princess and thus not having a proclivity for leaves and shit.” 

“Plan.” 

Clara smiled at John, getting to her feet and disappearing with the vase of water towards the kitchen. He sighed, picking up her phone out of idle curiosity and opening Twitter, reading over the replies to her tweet, which were already coming in. For every congratulatory message, there was another condemning them, and he felt sick to his stomach at some of the vile things people he read. Cruel things. Judgemental things. Things he didn’t want Clara to have to deal with. 

He toyed with the idea of deleting the tweet, but he knew it would be too late – it would already have been screencapped by now, and it was undoubtedly already being turned into an article by the tabloid press. _The Sun’s_ reaction would be bad enough, but the _Mail_ would be worse, and he groaned at the very thought of the acerbic, unkind comments that readers would be sure to bombard the articles with. 

He got up, still holding Clara’s phone, and headed for where he could hear her clattering about with mugs and the kettle. “Love?” he said hesitantly, as he stepped into the kitchen. “People are…”

“Divided?” she guessed, and he nodded. “I’m not surprised.” 

“Clara…” 

“John, stop it. OK? Stop it. I don’t give a shit what people think. I honestly don’t. I want you; I want to be with you. If people can’t accept that, or won’t, then that’s their problem, not ours. If they find it that difficult to believe that I could want to be with you just for you, not because of you know, your ‘huge fortune’ or your ‘prowess in bed’ then that is _not our problem_.” 

“But…” 

“Jesus Christ, John!” she cried, tears filling her eyes. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t you dare. Don’t you even think of telling me you love me and getting in this deep and then flaking out because of what some idiots think. That wouldn’t be fair on either of us, and I refuse to allow you to do that!” 

“Sorry,” he said at once, stepping forward and pulling her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere, love. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nolite te bastardes carborundorum" means "don't let the bastards grind you down" in faux-Latin.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John receive some exciting news from Raz, and John announces he's growing a beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of John having a beard was incorporated solely for [Chrissi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/pseuds/xXdreameaterXx), who has a thing about Peter with a beard.

When Clara arrived at the studio on Friday, she was unsurprised to find several press photographers camped outside the front door, cameras poised and iPhones set to record. Shoving her way through them and ignoring their intrusive questions and blinding flashes, she entered the glorious, air-conditioned coolness of reception and shuddered, glad to be free of them and able to breathe again. They were becoming an increasing problem, and one that she was becoming more and more fed up with.

“Sorry about them, ma’am,” Jack said, from his position behind the security desk, gesturing to the knot of reporters. “I’ve chased them off once this morning, but they’re almightily determined to get a photo of you and John. I’m not sure why, it’s not like you don’t post enough.” 

“You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am,’” Clara told him wearily, for what felt like the hundredth time. While the epithet was courteous, it felt strangely antiquated, and this week it had the unfortunate side effect of reminding her of her day job. “My name is fine.” 

“Hi, My Name, nice to meet you.” Jack quipped, and Clara laughed, her mood improving.   

“You’re cheeky,” she told him, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “How’s Ianto?” 

“He’s great,” Jack beamed from ear to ear. “We’re going for dinner tonight at this cute little place in Soho with shirtless waiters. How’s John? Maybe you could take him there, too.” 

“That’d go down well. He’s…” Clara frowned, as she realised she hadn’t heard from him all day. “Been weirdly quiet. Is he here?” 

“Arrived about an hour ago. The boss wanted to see him, but I think they’re waiting for you.” 

Clara felt her stomach lurch. “What does Raz want? Is this about me and John? We didn’t overstep a mark or anything with that picture on Wednesday, did we? Oh god…” 

“It’s not about that,” Jack assured her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “What?” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because I know what it’s about.” 

“And let me guess…” Clara scowled in irritation, wondering how on earth he could know but not her. “You don’t intend to tell me?” 

“Indeed.”

“Thanks for nothing,” she said drily, heading towards Studio 12 with a mounting sense of trepidation. “Have fun tonight!” 

“Will do! You too.” 

As she walked down the familiar corridors, Clara ran over all the possible reasons Raz could want to see her. Maybe she was being fired? Maybe John was? Maybe Missy had done something? Or – thinking positively – maybe she was getting a pay rise? That seemed unlikely, but a girl could dream.

Pushing open the door to the studio and stepping inside, Clara found John sat on the leather sofa he’d appropriated from elsewhere in the building, with Amy perched behind her desk and Raz sat in what was formerly Missy’s chair, looking down at his phone and scooting from side to side with his feet. As she entered the room, all three occupants turned their attention to her, and Clara had the irrational feeling that she’d done something wrong without realising, and she was about to be told off. 

“Urm, hi,” she said uncertainly, crossing the room to take a seat by John, needing his physical proximity for reassurance. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing bad,” John told her at once, taking her hand in his and attempting to look calm, but she could tell by the way his knee jiggled that he was nervous. “Or so Raz _lovingly_ assures us.” 

“It really is nothing bad,” Raz raised his eyebrows in a look of faux-affront. “Don’t you believe me anymore, mate?” 

“Not always, no,” John said, shrugging. “What’s happened?” 

“Well,” Raz slid his phone into a pocket and then looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them before continuing. “Since Missy’s… departure, and since Amy took over, things have been going very well for you both. Listeners love you, not that that’s a surprise for you, and they’re engaging with the show and the station at much higher numbers than before. Apparently, people actually _like_ hearing you flirt.” 

“Makes a change,” Amy deadpanned. “Cos I don’t.” 

Raz chuckled. “Well, several million listeners apparently do. You’ve attracted a lot of attention.” 

“Yeah, I know,” John muttered sourly. “Mostly of the negative variety.” 

“Oh, sure, there’ve been some idiots,” Raz held his hands up. “I’m not denying that the tabloids are causing issues, but that’s what they do; it’s nothing new. What I _am_ saying is that… well, you’ve attracted a lot of positive attention too. New listeners. _Younger_ listeners. New social media followers. More people listening to the podcasts. That sort of thing.” 

“Right…” Clara said uncertainly, worried about where this was going. “And this is important… why?” 

“Well, you’ve attracted enough attention to end up on the radar of some very important people. Namely, the Radio Academy.” 

John squeezed Clara’s hand tightly, although she didn’t understand why. “No,” he murmured under his breath, looking at Raz in awe. “No, no way…” 

“And in fact, you’ve attracted so much of their attention that you’ve been nominated for Best Entertainment Production at the UK Radio Awards.” 

Clara’s mouth fell open as she blinked at her boss, unable to process what he’d said. A hush fell over the room as all three of them blinked at Raz in shock, trying to take in the news. 

“You’re kidding,” John said eventually, practically vibrating with restrained excitement. “Like, this is a wind-up, right?” 

“It’s not a wind-up,” Raz assured them in a calm, measured tone. “I can show you their website and the email they sent me, if you’d like.”

“Please,” John asked, in a somewhat strangled voice, and Clara understood his reservations. He wanted to be absolutely sure. They all did. “Just to check.”

Raz took out his phone, flicked through several menus, and then showed them a webpage. There it was, in black and white: _Nominees: Best Entertainment Production: Radio TARDIS – Drivetime with John and Clara._  

“Oh, my god,” Clara breathed, feeling a warm rush of pride in herself, and John, and Amy. “This is really real. An _award._ ” 

“Holy shit,” Amy added, looking at her friend in amazement. “That’s…” 

“Amazing!” John enthused, pulling Clara into a triumphant hug and letting out a celebratory whoop. “After all this time and nothing on the awards front, it turns out you’re my lucky charm, Clara Oswald!” 

His enthusiasm was infectious, and Clara laughed, kissing him in celebration and smiling from ear to ear. “I’ve never been to an awards ceremony,” she realised, looking from John to Raz. “What…” 

“We’ll sort a stylist for you and Amy,” their boss told her. “Don’t worry about that.” 

She exhaled in relief. “Good,” she turned her attention to John. “You’ll have to find a nice suit.” 

“I have plenty of nice suits.” 

“And maybe shave,” Clara added, ruminating on the somewhat scratchy kiss of seconds earlier and running a hand over John’s cheek. “Not big on the stubble.” 

“I’m growing a beard,” he explained, and she raised her eyebrows in incredulity. “What?”

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“I’m not walking a red carpet with you while you have a beard. I mean… wait, do radio awards _have_ red carpets?” 

“Of course,” Raz told her. “And I see your point about the facial hair. John, really? A beard?” 

“Yes,” he said, looking wounded. “A beard.” 

“Clara, have you shagged him yet?” Amy asked, and Raz turned a fiery shade of red at her frank choice of words. “Because if so, withhold that privilege until he shaves.” 

Clara laughed. “That’s an idea.” 

“But we haven’t…” John stammered. “You and I…” 

“Yes, and we aren’t going to until you ditch the stubble.” 

John turned an equally violent shade of red, and dropped his eyes to his lap. 

“Please tell me that isn’t a difficult decision,” Clara asked in exasperation. “ _Please._ ” 

“I think… I’m going to… ah… I’ll be… urm…” Raz got to his feet and stumbled towards the door, looking mortified. “Congrats again!” 

He disappeared from sight, and Amy affixed them both with a stern look. “Guys, don’t scare the boss.” 

“What?” Clara asked, pouting innocently at her best friend before turning her attention to John. “Why is that such a difficult choice? Shagging me, or growing a beard?” 

“What’s the issue with me having a beard?” John asked, visibly insulted. 

“Stubble rash,” Clara and Amy said in synchronicity, and John looked confused for half a moment, then horrified. 

“Right,” he said weakly. “Well… urm… it’s just an experiment, and you know… it might go badly wrong, so I’ll just… let it grow for a bit.” 

“You are just…” Clara blinked at him in stupefaction. “Me. Naked. Me, naked, in a bed. Or not in a bed. Whatever floats your sexy boat. Are you actually telling me you’re willing to forsake that for a few weeks in favour of having hair on your face?” 

“Are you likely to shag me in the next two weeks?” John asked bluntly, and Clara conceded defeat, rolling her eyes. 

“No, but I like winding you up,” she admitted, poking her tongue out at him. “You can grow a beard, just don’t expect any making out.” 

“Fine,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “You know, you might end up really liking it.” 

“That is entirely doubtful.”

 

* * *

 

A week later, and Clara was curled up with John on his sofa as an action film played out on the TV to their right. Not that either of them was paying a blind bit of notice to it, because they were both engrossed in kissing each other in a way that could only be described as ‘aggressively.’ Or at least they were, until Clara pulled away, panting, and shoved John away somewhat insistently. 

“Nope,” she told him, catching her breath and keeping him at arm’s length. “Nope, the beard is not doing it for me.” 

“It’s not that bad!” 

“My face feels like you’ve accosted me with sandpaper,” she told him, scowling as she probed over her cheeks and jaw with her fingertips, wincing at the soreness of her skin. “I actually think you might’ve.” 

“Well, I’m _sorry_.”

“Should be,” she joked, getting to her feet and grabbing her overnight bag. “I’ll be upstairs, moisturising my poor wounded skin, should you wish to come and join me and have a shave.” 

“You’re mean.” 

“I know,” she tipped him a wink and then danced upstairs, heading into his bedroom and setting her overnight bag down on the bed before fishing through it for her moisturiser. Locating the small pot, she crossed the room to the dressing table and began to apply it to the sorest spots, enjoying the relief that the cool product brought to her tender skin. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she turned her head towards the bedroom door, smiling at John as he entered the room. 

“Better?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk, and she hummed happily in response, setting her moisturiser aside and flinging herself into his arms. He staggered a little in surprise, then wrapped his arms around her and grinned. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she murmured, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his waist. “My bearded boyfriend.” 

“Do you really hate it that much?” he asked, his brow furrowing in worry. “Because-” 

“No,” she said at once, shaking her head. “I’m just messing with you, it looks very distinguished.” 

“How’s your skin?” he asked, one hand cupping her cheek worriedly. “Not too sore?” 

“No, not too sore,” she acquiesced. “Tolerable. Danny grew a beard once and it was much worse than yours… I came out in a rash.” 

She froze, realising she’d just compared the two men, but John only smiled understandingly. “Not ideal for you.” 

“It wasn’t, no,” she said in a small voice. “Still, rather the face than… other parts.”

He laughed. “Good point.” 

“You can keep it for the awards,” she told him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “OK?” 

“Oh?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow. “What changed your mind?” 

“You have a lot of female fans online,” Clara said simply. “They’re going nuts over the beard.” 

“And this changed your opinion because…”

“Well, all those women lusting over you, but _I’m_ the one on your arm,” Clara winked. “Bit of an ego boost, isn’t it?” 

John laughed, sidling towards the bed and perching on the edge of it. “Your ego doesn’t need boosting.” 

“Lies,” Clara pouted. “It always needs boosting.” 

“So, you don’t want me to shave?” 

“Not right away, no,” she admitted. “Not until… well, you know. Things go up a notch.” 

John nodded, and Clara looked away from him, focusing her attention on the patterned duvet cover. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, feeling a touch shy. “You know. For not… rushing me.” 

“Clara, it’s honestly… you don’t have to thank me.” 

“I know, but…” she sighed. “It’s nice, you know? That you didn’t want to rush into being physical straight away. It means a lot to me.” 

“I’m not that sort of man,” he said plainly. “And I didn’t – and don’t – want you to think it’s all I’m after, because it’s not.” 

“I know,” she murmured, nuzzling into him and listening to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. “I know, John.” 

“I wanna do this right,” he kissed her forehead, then added in a lighter tone: “And if that means no beard, then no beard.” 

Clara laughed. “Good to know,” she teased. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John attend the UK Radio Awards, and bolstered by a couple of glasses of champagne, Clara makes a request of John. One that involves the two of them heading to bed together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dress that Clara wears in this chapter can be seen [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/f1/52/63/f152631ee1aed15d97c8683d965dfda7.jpg) and [here](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/08/07/article-2718973-20558F5000000578-426_306x739.jpg).

Clara stood by John’s side on the red carpet, feeling a touch foolish for her choice of outfit. Admittedly, scarlet had seemed like a flattering colour at the time, but now as she stood here blending into the plush fabric beneath her overly tall high heels, she felt rather silly, although she did have to acknowledge that this was a rather gorgeous dress, and that John’s jaw had literally dropped when he’d first seen her in it. The thought of that made her smirk, and beside her, John snaked an arm around her waist, seemingly reading her mind. 

“Yes, Miss Oswald?” he purred in her ear, his breath warming her skin. “That face means you’re up to something naughty.” 

“This face means I’m greatly enjoying the effect this dress is having on you,” she corrected, leaning into his embrace. “I chose well.” 

“You chose better than well,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You chose _superbly._ ” 

“Are you flirting with me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow up at him in polite surprise. “In public?” 

“I might be.” 

“I think you are.” 

“Well, my girlfriend looks delectable, I think I’m allowed,” he winked at her. “Besides, I’m not allowed to kiss you, so flirting will have to make do.” 

“Terribly sorry about the lipstick issue,” Clara deadpanned. “Being a woman is tough, and sometimes sacrifices must be made.” 

“I second that,” Amy interjected from John’s right, and Clara shifted her attention to her for long enough to notice her best friend’s weary expression. Amy had made an effort for the evening, garbed in an impeccably tailored suit, yet still reporters were focusing their attention on Clara and Clara alone. “Could you two flirt a bit less, ta? I am actually here, and you two fawning over each other is somewhat vomit-inducing.” 

“How rude,” Clara said with mock affront, pouting in a carefully calculated manner. “We are nothing less than adorable, I’ll have you know.” 

“You are, yeah,” Amy rolled her eyes. “But it’s also nauseating. Please tone it down, or wait until we’re inside and it’s dark and you can cop off out of my field of vision. Thanks.” 

“We are not going to cop off!” Clara protested, then grinned mischievously. “…not until later, anyway.” 

John looked at her with surprise, and she suppressed the urge to giggle at the shock on his face. “Really?”

“No, you div,” she said in exasperation. “You’ve still got that godawful beard, so really, no.” 

“Damn,” he muttered, feigning a look of hurt. “I like it. The press like it.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Clara linked arms with him. “I don’t, so you will be remaining celibate until it exits your face for good. Got it?” 

“Yes, boss.” 

“Good,” Clara took Amy’s hand in her free one, and they began to stroll up the red carpet, occasionally stopping when directed to in order to pose for photos together. “You know, this awards thing isn’t as bad as I feared.”

“Radio awards are fairly restrained,” John explained with a nonchalant shrug. “TV stuff is pretty insane, but if you’re just a radio presenter they tend to leave you alone at those kinds of things.” 

“How would you know?” 

“1996 TV BAFTAs,” John told them, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Not an overly awful evening, but not great either. Got drunk and told Parkinson I didn’t like his interview technique.” 

“You _didn’t._ ” 

“I did!” he mumbled, looking a touch embarrassed by the admission, and Clara elbowed him playfully in the side. “Never again though.” 

“Good to know,” Clara patted his hand as a reporter held out a hand and beckoned them over insistently, a vaguely menacing look on her face. “Oh, _good_. Journos _._ ” 

“Be nice,” Amy cautioned, approaching the young woman with a forced air of politeness. “Evening.” 

“Evening,” the journalist said in an overly bright tone that immediately put Clara’s back up. “Saibra Khan, of the _Metro._ John, Clara, you’ve become quite the power couple.” 

“Have we?” Clara asked, blinking at the unexpected statement. “I don’t really… I mean, we’re just a normal couple, really. Aside from the radio show thing.”

“You two are all over social media, though! Everyone is talking about you!” 

“Are they?” John muttered sourly, his eyebrows settling into a furious expression. “Let me guess…” 

“It’s so unusual to see such a large age gap in a celebrity couple-” 

“We’re not celebrities,” Clara said bluntly. “And if you’re looking for an age gap, Mick Jagger is 73 and his girlfriend is 30, so really, this pales in comparison.”

“But-”

“Emmanuel Macron and Brigitte Trogneux,” Clara reeled off in a flat, bored tone. “Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Jason Statham.”  

“Yes, but-” 

“End of discussion,” Clara snapped, leading John away and trying to resist the urge to go back and start an argument. “Sorry,” she mumbled, when they reached a safe distance. “People like her…” 

“I know,” John said understandingly, and his presence at her side helped her retain her composure. “Why don’t we give her something to stick in her shitty newspaper?” 

“Alright, but mind my-” 

She wasn’t able to finish her sentence, because John kissed her then, gently and carefully, with one hand resting on the exposed small of her back as he did so. She was dimly aware of camera flashes going off around them, and of Amy uttering a noise of exasperation, but none of that mattered in that instant because she was kissing the man she loved; the man who had healed her heart; and, if anyone surrounding them didn’t like that, then they could frankly fuck off.

John pulled away a few seconds later, his lips tinged a pale shade of red from her lipstick, and Clara wrinkled her nose. 

“How am I looking?” he asked seriously, and she reached up and swiped her thumb over his mouth, removing the traces of her lip colour and then appraising him with a critical eye. 

“Better,” she told him. “Me?” 

“Surprisingly OK. Ten points to your makeup for staying largely in place.” 

“Are you two _quite_ finished?” Amy asked, her tone pleading. “Because I’d like to get inside sometime in the next year, and that isn’t going to happen unless you two quit snogging and start walking.” 

“It was _one_ snog,” Clara countered, sticking her tongue out at her friend. “That’s all.”

“And that’s one snog too many,” Amy told her, grabbing her by the hand and starting to drag her away. “Inside. Now. Come on.”

“Fine,” Clara concurred, as Amy continued her determined march along the remainder of the red carpet, and John began to trot obediently after them. “Inside it is. John, just… follow, and try not to get lost, OK?”

 

* * *

 

Clara remembered very little of the actual awards ceremony itself. She wasn’t sure whether that was due to the two glasses of champagne Amy had all but poured down her throat first, or her nerves, or the bursts of adrenaline she experienced, but her memories of the darkened room and the melodrama of the whole affair were foggy. They stopped and started like a poorly maintained film, with the only constant being Amy’s presence on her left and John’s hand in hers, clinging to her like a lifeline, keeping her in her seat and relatively sane. 

When their category was announced and their name was read out as the winners, the whole world seemed to slow down, with time and space condensing to that moment, to stumbling out of her seat with John and Amy, and heading up to the stage to collect their award. Clara clutched it proudly as John made an acceptance speech, staring at her with outright devotion and adoration as he publicly acknowledged the role she had played in his life, and she felt her heart skip a beat as he smiled at her with pure, unfettered emotion. She recalled that moment with absolute clarity; as his eyes met hers and he told the assembled celebrities – _actual_ celebrities, ones she’d grown up listening to – that he loved her. Nothing else mattered in that instant, not even the excited squeals of her best friend or her own sense of triumph. Nothing existed besides her and John. 

They stumbled towards the hotel and the after-party once the awards had come to a close – Raz had splurged and booked the three of them rooms, which they intended to make the most of. Amy being Amy, she at once plied Clara with luridly coloured cocktails with names that made John smirk, and held aloft their silver statuette as they downed their drinks under John’s watchful eye. Clara stopped giving a damn about her makeup sometime after drink number three, and so she dragged John out to the dance floor and kissed him almost aggressively as they began to dance under the soft, pulsing purple lights. His hands came to rest on the exposed expanse of the small of her back, and the sensation of his skin on hers was enough to spark her desire; to make her think about what it would be like to make love to him. _I could do it,_ she thought to herself, bolstered by the alcohol she had consumed. _I could have him tonight, in our hotel room. It would be so easy, and so… right._

Before she could reason with herself or remind herself of her pledge surrounding John, sex, and the beard, she found herself standing on tiptoes and placing her mouth beside his ear. “I want you,” she murmured in a low voice that sounded entirely unlike her own. “I want you, tonight.” 

“Clara…” 

“No,” she whispered, kissing his neck before commanding: “Don’t argue. Upstairs. Now.” 

“But Amy…”

“We’ll lock the connecting door, she won’t mind.”   

“Clara…” 

“John,” she breathed, pressing herself against him and noticing the way his breathing hitched in response to their increased proximity. “John, I want you. _Please_.” 

He paused for one agonisingly long moment and then nodded in agreement, leading her towards the stairs and casting a single, guilty look back towards Amy, who was stood at the bar chatting animatedly to Ken Bruce and not paying either of them a blind bit of notice. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, as they all but ran down the thickly carpeted hallways towards their room. “Like, really, one hundred per cent sure?” 

“John,” she assured him, stopping to back him against a wall and kiss him until they were both breathless. “I’m sure.” 

“You’ve had a drink…” 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that _I want you_.” 

“But…” 

Clara only rolled her eyes and pulled away, keeping walking and stopping only when they reached Room 231. She shifted impatiently from foot to foot as John fumbled through his pockets for the keycard, trying to ignore the desire that was pooling in her stomach and driving her to distraction. 

“Hurry up,” she whined. “Please. I might die otherwise.” 

John chuckled. “I find that highly doubtful,” he fished through his pockets with concentration and then held aloft the keycard. “Ha!” 

“Good, make with the unlocking.” 

He laughed again and opened the door, stumbling over the threshold as Clara jumped into his arms enthusiastically and began to kiss him with aplomb. 

“Hey,” he complained good-naturedly, turning his head and diverting some of her endeavours to his cheeks. “At least wait until the door’s closed.” 

Clara rolled her eyes and reached towards the door, slamming it behind them and then smirking. “Better?” 

“Much,” John concurred, plonking down on the end of the bed somewhat less than gracefully. “I…” 

Clara reached up to the base of her neck and undid the bow holding the back of her dress together, peeling it down to her waist and watching John fall silent in awe. 

“Yes?” she asked innocently, tossing her hair with somewhat more vigour than was necessary. “You were saying?” 

“Never mind what I was saying,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the edge of her jaw, then her neck, then her shoulder. “You’re much more important.” 

“Tell me…” Clara shivered with anticipation as his lips pressed against her sternum. “Tell me I’m beautiful. Please.” 

“Clara,” he said with utmost sincerity, pulling back and reaching up to cup her cheek. “Clara, you’re beautiful. So, _so_ beautiful.” 

She closed her eyes as he kissed the spot over her heart, enjoying the feel of his lips on her bare skin, but as he pulled away a fraction and moved his mouth lower, she frowned. 

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “No, wait.” 

“What?” he asked at once, looking panicked as he straightened up and surveyed her with wide, apologetic eyes. “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” 

“Yes,” she told him, then sighed. “I mean, that is, yes, but not… not for good. Just… the beard.” 

“What about it?” 

“Go and have a shave.” 

“Clara, you’ve got to be kidding,” he groaned. “You’re driving me insane, and now you want me to stop all of this and go and shave?”

“Yep.” 

“But you’ll be asleep when I’m done. I’d be reasonably willing to bet on it.” 

“Better be quick then.” 

He rolled his eyes, but she only scrambled off his lap and gave him a stern look. 

“Clara, c’mon…” 

“Now.” 

He sighed and got to his feet, shrugging off his jacket before heading into the bathroom with begrudging, unwilling steps, and a moment later Clara heard the sound of the tap running. She smirked to herself, getting up and allowing her dress to puddle at her feet before stepping out of it and arranging it neatly over the back of a nearby chair, so that she could admire her semi-naked reflection in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe. She turned from side to side, appraising the way the deep crimson lace of her underwear contrasted with the cool, pale expanse of her skin, and then smirked to herself, content that she looked incredible. 

Kicking off her heels, she arranged herself on the bed as artistically she was able, and waited for John to reappear. Ideally with a freshly clean-shaven face. 

When he finally did so, his jaw dropped at the sight of her, and he placed a hand on his heart. 

“Dear God,” he breathed, looking heavenwards reverentially. “If you’re up there, please grant me the willpower to not die in the next hour.” 

“Only the next hour?” Clara asked, raising an eyebrow. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘all night.’” 

“Steady on,” he murmured, unbuttoning his shirt and sinking down beside her, beginning to kiss her languidly. “I’m not sure this old heart will survive that long…”


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can John and Clara's post-coital bliss last? Or will the outside world catch up with them?

Clara rolled over in bed, stretching luxuriously and staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling above her. She frowned, confused for a minute about where she was, and then memories of the previous night flooded over her: the hotel, the awards, and…

She looked over to where John was still asleep beside her, smiling fondly as she scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. _Right,_ she thought to herself, raising her eyebrows a fraction as more recollections returned to her. _That… happened._  

“Morning,” John mumbled, keeping his eyes closed but placing an arm around her protectively. “Sleep OK?” 

“Mm,” Clara hummed by way of assertion, pressing a kiss to his chest and snuggling into him more comfortably. “Slept wonderfully. You wore me out.” 

“Did I now?” he asked, opening his eyes and shooting her a teasing glance. “Nice to know I’ve still got it in me.” 

“I think you’ll find you got it in _me,_ actually,” Clara deadpanned, and John rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Honestly, you make it so easy to make comments like that.” 

“You sound like Amy.” 

“Not a bad thing.” 

“Yeah, but I like the fact you’re not Scottish. And that you’re easy to cuddle.” 

“Are you calling me short?” 

“No, I’m calling you Hug-Sized.” 

“Speaking of Amy…” Clara’s eyes went wide as she realised something. “Did we…” 

In answer to her question, the connecting door between their room and Amy’s burst open, and their producer arranged herself artistically in the doorframe, grinning like a Cheshire Cat as she surveyed the two of them. “Oh, my god,” she enthused at once, as Clara yelped and yanked the duvet up. “Did you two finally…” 

“Never you mind,” John said as magnanimously as he was able given that he was buried under the duvet Clara had pulled over his head. “Amy, privacy is a thing.” 

“No, it isn’t. Did you two finally get it on? My spidey senses would indicate yes.”

“And why have your spidey senses concluded that?” Clara asked, sitting up with the duvet wrapped around her torso and attempting to look dignified as she patted down her bed hair with one hand. 

“Your underwear's three feet away from the bed. Which mean that you’re either practicing for the Pants Olympics, or… well, they got discarded in the heat of the moment. My money is on the latter, because damn girl, those are _really_ nice pants.”

Clara blushed ferociously, cursing her past self for being so careless and forgetting to lock the connecting door. “Amy…” 

“Come _on,_ Oswald. Don’t get all prudish on me now.” 

“Oh, my god,” John muttered, wriggling until he emerged from the duvet, hair ruffled and expression mortified. “Yes, Amy, we did, OK? And they’re very nice pants, I agree.” 

“I hate you both,” Clara muttered, burying her head in her hands. “I really hate you both. A lot.” 

“I expect lascivious details,” Amy trilled, looking gleeful, then grimaced. “Although maybe not too lascivious. He’s my boss, and I really don’t want to think about him-” 

“ _Amy,”_ Clara pleaded, unable to look her best friend in the eye. “For the sake of my sanity, do not finish that sentence. Go down and have breakfast or do something productive.” 

“Make me.” 

“We might go in for Round 2, so unless you fancy watching, I’d suggest leaving,” John said with a straight face, and Amy shuddered and disappeared back to her own room, closing the door behind her. “Better.” 

“Are we really going for Round 2?” Clara asked, looking up at John and smirking. 

“No,” he chuckled. “I just wanted her to leave.” 

“Pity.” 

“I think after last night I need at least twenty-four hours to recharge,” John told her, pulling her onto his lap and grinning as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Because: holy wow.” 

“Was it OK? I mean, I’m kind of out of practice, and I didn’t want-” 

“Clara, it was more than OK,” he assured her, resting his forehead against her temple and sighing contentedly. “Was _I_ alright? I know I’m ancient and creaky and frankly somewhat useless, but I really… I wanted things to be perfect for you, and if anything didn’t work for you or you didn’t like it then I’d rather you tell me now.” 

“John, you really don’t need to worry.” 

“But…” 

“Honestly, I’m asserting that it’s true what they say about older men, but only because Amy isn’t here to say it instead. You know what you’re doing, and last night was great. Stop worrying.” 

John laughed, resting his hands on Clara’s stomach and relaxing. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“Good, so… maybe we could do that more often?” 

John smiled, tucking a strand of Clara’s hair behind her ear as he did so. “I’d like that. In the meantime… how does ordering room service sound? Breakfast in bed?” 

“Dear god, that sounds ideal. As long as it comes with copious amounts of coffee, because my head is just… ugh.” 

“I would blame you for your hangover but frankly Amy was far more culpable,” John grimaced sympathetically. “Coffee is something that can be arranged though.” 

“Excellent,” Clara scooted off John’s lap and grabbed the room service menu, handing it to him before snatching her phone off the bedside table and opening Twitter. 

“You’re such a millennial,” John teased, looking over her shoulder as she scrolled, all thoughts of breakfast forgotten. “I used to read the morning paper when I woke up, not Twitter.” 

“That’s because you’re from the Stone Age,” Clara shot back. “Besides, I wouldn’t class myself as a millennial. My students, possibly. Me… nah.” 

“Excuse me,” John protested, pressing a kiss to her neck in an unsuccessful attempt to win her attention. “Millennials can technically anyone born from the early 80s onwards, so you qualify.” 

“Hmph,” Clara said by way of a reply, leaning back against John and continuing to peruse her timeline. “Oh look, people hating on us.” 

“What?!” John said at once, taking the phone out of her hand and scowling at the screen as he read the headline aloud. “‘Golden radio couple John Smith and Clara Oswald win big at the UK Radio Awards but we ask: is it all just a showmance?’ Well, they can fuck off.” 

“I mean, that speech you made last night,” Clara said in a faux-serious tone. “That was totally all just fake. Clearly we actually hate each other.” 

“Obviously.” 

“That hate-fuck last night was great.” 

“Wasn’t it just?” 

“ _So_ wonderful.” 

“Yeah, in reality, I can barely stand you.” 

“Same goes for you,” Clara rolled her eyes, kissing John playfully. “God, these people are so full of shit.” 

John fell silent, his teeth worrying his lip as he pushed his hand through his hair. “Clara…” 

“Yeah?” she asked, feeling her heart skip a beat as she recognised the troubled expression on his face and tried to steel herself for whatever was to come. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s _wrong,_ per se,” John reached over and placed his hand on her cheek, skimming his thumb over the curve of her jaw. “I just… god, I’m so in love with you and it terrifies me; it scares the shit out of me because I never thought I’d feel like this again. And having to deal with idiots who think this is all some manufactured shit is just degrading and unnecessary and I don’t want to have to constantly be defending us and what we are to them, simply because they’re too narrow-minded to see that we love each other.” 

“John…” Clara sighed, leaning into his touch and trying to work out how best to allay his fears. “I know it scares you, having to deal with that. I know you’ve never had the person you’re seeing be in the public eye before. But I promise you, we can make this work. We just have to learn to tune it out.” 

“How?” he asked, his eyes flickering away from her face as he continued to chew at his lip. “How can I tune that out when it’s all around me all the time? When I’m drowning in a sea of people challenging us?” 

“You could tune it out by concentrating on me, how about that?” 

“But…” 

“John, do you really want this – _us_ – to go under, just because of what people are saying? Do you really want people who are paid to chat shit about celebrities to have the satisfaction of breaking us apart?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Well then.”

“Clara…” 

“John, shut up, and stay shut up. I don’t give a fuck what people say. When are you going to believe that? When are you actually going to believe that I want to be with you and that the opinions of other people are totally fucking irrelevant? We’ve had this discussion a million times and you just won’t _listen_ , will you?” 

“Well, is it too much to ask to be able to walk down the street holding your hand and not have some jumped-up little shit write an article about me being a pervert?” 

“You’re not a pervert!” 

“Really? Wow, I wonder what they’d say if they knew I’d fucked you. No doubt they’d really go to town with their headlines then.” 

“ _Headlines don’t fucking matter!_ ” Clara spat, losing her temper. “I don’t give a shit what they say about us and I really don’t see why it’s bothering you so much! I’m the one that’s going to bear the brunt of it, John, not you!” 

“I don’t exactly see how I’m not going to have to deal with it!” 

“Because you’ve got no one to judge you!” Clara shouted before she could stop herself, feeling guilty for her words as soon as they left her mouth. “You don’t have anyone left to think badly of you except for Missy. Well, guess what, John? I’ve got my school and my students and a whole board of governors and my family and my friends, and somehow I’m managing to not give a fuck about any of their perceptions of me or you, because I love you and I want to be with you and if they can’t accept that then they can fuck off!” 

“That was real fucking cold of you, you know that?” John asked quietly, his expression hardening. “How dare you?” 

“John, you know what I mean!” Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “I just want to be with you and enjoy being with you and not have to constantly worry about what other people are saying. And I can’t do that when you’re so hung up on the press and what they think of us, because it’s just… it’s affecting us, and it’s getting in the way, and I don’t want that!” 

“Exactly. I knew this was a mistake.” 

“What? How dare you even say that? What does that even mean? That I’m a mistake now?! That the sex was a mistake?!” 

“No!” he refuted, shaking his head at the insinuation. “Not you, not… I mean going public.” 

“Oh, please,” Clara scoffed, dismissing the notion at once. “Like we could’ve kept it a secret.” 

“We could’ve tried! It would’ve been better like that; no one would have bothered us then. We could’ve been left alone, and we wouldn’t have to worry because we’d be low-key.” 

“Right. Well, here’s a suggestion: we can keep _today_ low-key. Starting with us leaving the hotel separately,” Clara scrambled out of bed, pulling on last night’s discarded underwear and then stepping back into her dress, lacing it up behind her neck with shaking fingers. “See you when you’re done being a prick.” 

“I’m not…” John said wearily, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching out to her. “Clara, don’t go…” 

“Why should I stay?” she asked bitterly, knowing she was on the verge of breaking down. “Why should I stay with someone who’s ashamed of what we are?”

“I’m not…” 

“Save it, John.” 

Clara seized her phone from his unprotesting hands and stalked from the room, wrapping her arms around herself as she headed downstairs. She needed to keep it together. She needed to be strong until she was safely ensconced in her flat away from prying eyes, and then and only then could she consider falling apart. 

“Hey!” Amy called from behind her, jogging along the corridor and seizing Clara’s arm. “What are you doing? What was that about?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Clara, you two were…” 

“What, are you going to go and sell us out to the press? Is that why you wanna know? I mean, everyone else does, so why the fuck shouldn’t you?” 

“Babe, you need to-” 

“Fuck off, Amy. Alright? Do you understand me? Just _fuck off._ ” 

“Clara!” 

“I mean it!” she snarled furiously, and Amy looked wounded. “Just fuck off and leave me alone!” 

Clara wrenched her arm free and ran down to reception, stepping out of the hotel and getting into the nearest taxi, keeping her head down as she gave her address. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she took deep breaths and tried to reassure herself that things would be fine.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy finally loses her temper at Clara about the past year.

Clara was curled up on the sofa in the dark when Amy got home later that afternoon. Surrounded by empty mugs of tea and scrunched-up tissues, and having spent the past three hours alternately crying, swearing at a hushed volume, and thumping the sofa cushions, she felt thoroughly exhausted, and she was relieved to hear her flatmate’s key in the door. Sitting up, she brushed down the crumpled fabric of her dress and pasted a smile on her face as Amy stepped into the lounge, her face set in a grim expression that was enough to cause Clara a flicker of concern.

“Hey,” Clara said as brightly as she was able, ploughing onwards with a relentless sense of optimism in the hope it might alleviate Amy’s mood, and wondering whether her flatmate might feel like ordering a celebratory Chinese. “How was-” 

“Shut up,” Amy interjected, yanking open the curtains and temporarily dazzling Clara. “Because I have some shit to say, and you’re not going to like it, OK?” 

“I’m… not…?”

“No, you’re not,” Amy stood with her hands on her hips, glowering down at Clara with a face like thunder. For a single, irrational moment, Clara felt the urge to giggle, then her stomach lurched at the prospect of what was to come, and she felt abruptly sombre as Amy began: “Right. You treat me like shit.” 

“What?”

“Do not even try to deny that, Oswald. I’m not saying it happens all the time, and I’m not saying that you can’t be lovely, because you can, but you do, on occasion, treat me like absolute crap, and I’ve had enough of it. I’ve had enough of being a doormat and letting you do whatever you want, when you want, and letting you walk over me and my feelings. I’ve had enough of being your emotional comfort blanket and punching bag. I don’t exist for you to take out your emotions on. I don’t exist for you to yell at because you’re having a bad day.” 

“I don’t…” 

“Look, when Danny died, you fell apart. And I don’t begrudge you that, Clara, because it’s normal. But you lashed out at me, and you said some really fucking awful things.” 

“Did I?” 

“Yes, you did. And I know that’s part of the grieving process. God knows, I said some shit to Rory after Mels died. But it wasn’t fair on me that I was having to deal with you saying things about how you didn’t want to go on, and you wanted to hurt yourself, and you wanted everything to stop. It wasn’t fair that I was terrified to go to work in case I came home and found you gone, or dead, or halfway to being dead. You should’ve sought professional help, Clara, because I wasn’t equipped to deal with that, but you never goddamn asked, did you? You just went and offloaded everything on me, and OK, I was – and am – happy to listen, but that doesn’t mean that I knew what to say. That doesn’t mean I didn’t spend every fucking night for weeks worrying about you, and having to come and check on you if you stopped crying, because I didn’t know whether silence meant suicide or sleep.” 

“I’m…”

“Not done. Then you started contacting John, and that was great! I mean, it wasn’t professional help, but it was a great start. You were starting to smile again, and I love seeing you smile. I love seeing you be happy. But you were starting to be OK, and then that enormous media campaign began, and I was having to outright _lie_ to people about knowing you to try and keep you safe, and you never once said thank you or stopped to consider the hoops I was jumping through trying to keep you safe, trying to keep you out of the press. Oh no, quite the opposite: instead, you went and _fell in love_ with your damn celebrity stalker.” 

“He’s not a stalker,” Clara protested feebly. “He…” 

“I’m still not done, Oswald. You fell in love but you wouldn’t damn well listen to me about that, would you? Oh no, you kept denying it and kept ignoring me when I tried to offer advice. You made me feel like _shit_ for having a boyfriend, and then when the engagement happened I tried to be nice and I tried to be sympathetic and I tried to make sure I wasn’t shoving it in your face, while all the while you ignored the man you were completely in love with and moped over Danny, a man who didn’t even love enough to be faithful to-” 

“You take that back.” 

“Clara, you cheated on him. OK? There is no nice way to put that. You weren’t happy in that relationship, so you cheated on him, and you only beat yourself up about his death for so damn long because you blamed yourself for it. You blamed yourself and you made everyone around you feel like shit for not being on the same level of sadness that you were. You put yourself through _hell_ and now when you finally have a man who loves you and adores you and would walk through bloody fire for you, you try to self-sabotage by making an issue out of this whole bloody press business. Don’t even try and deny it, Clara. You’re pushing him away because you don’t want to get hurt again. Well, I refuse to let you. I’m not going to let you turn this into some overdramatic exercise in martyrdom, because I’m sick of you being overdramatic, quite honestly. I mean, for god sake, you did a runner back to Blackpool without really telling me! I thought you were _dead_!” 

“Amy…” 

“And then… this morning, this morning you really took the damn biscuit. I mean, for fuck sake, you accused me of selling you out to the press! Do you know how badly that hurt, hearing those words? Do you know how much that made me feel like shit, that you thought I would do that? I would _never_ do that to you, Clara. _Never._ ” 

“I…” 

“What? You’re sorry? You’re going to cry and beg and make me feel like a shitty person for actually finally saying all of this and not just nodding and mm-ing and trying to bend over backwards to make you feel OK? For letting myself be taken for granted just to try and keep you alive?” 

“I _am_ sorry,” Clara whispered, fighting to keep her voice even as she realised the truth of Amy’s words. “Amy, I’m so sorry. I was selfish and I made mistakes and yes, you’re right, I’ve taken you for granted and I’m sorry. Nothing can excuse that. I never meant to hurt you.” 

“I know.” 

“You’ve been nothing but amazing, and I’ve been nothing less than awful. I’m sorry. I love you and I value you and I let myself get so deep into this godawful pit of self-loathing and self-despair that I couldn’t see that I was hurting you, and that was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.” 

“I know.”

“Please, just… Amy, what can I do to make it up for you? Other than, you know, stopping being a self-centred knob.” 

“Well, you could start by giving me a hug,” Amy mused with a small, shy smile, holding out her arms, and Clara stepped into them gratefully, pressing her face into her friend’s shoulder and fighting back tears as they embraced. “And then you can make amends with John, because you’re going to be pissy otherwise, and you being pissy is not conducive to you not being a knob and not treating me like shit.” 

“Hang on,” Clara pulled back and narrowed her eyes at her friend suspiciously. “Has this just all been a massive ploy to get me to make up with John?” 

“No,” Amy rolled her eyes. “I genuinely am sick of being treated like a doormat. Believe me, your sex life is really quite low on the agenda, but I know that a happy Clara is a Clara who is willing to actually try and make things up to me, ergo I’m willing to facilitate this. Go and say sorry, idiot.” 

“Oh. OK.” 

“Yeah, oh,” Amy sighed. “He was pretty cut up, you know, after you left. Kept telling me what an idiot he was, that kind of thing.” 

“I’m allowed to be annoyed about him getting weird about this.” 

“Yes, you are, but you’re not allowed to then be all melodramatic and stomp out of hotels. It’s annoying, and it’s attention-seeking, and I could really live without it, if I’m honest.” 

“Apologies.” 

“Look, don’t apologise; make it up to me.” 

“How?” 

“John is sat in the car park with a slightly forlorn looking bunch of flowers. Maybe go and speak to the guy and tell him you’re sorry for making a mountain out of a molehill and doing a dramatic sweep from the building.” 

“I can do that,” Clara acquiesced, getting up and smoothing down her dress again in an attempt to not look as though she’d been lounging around in it for hours. “Be right back.” 

Emerging from the flat, Clara began to descend the many flights of stairs to the car park in silence, contemplating Amy’s words as she trudged down and down and down. She had been selfish, that much she knew. She’d been selfish and she’d taken advantage of Amy’s good nature, trusting her best friend to catch her each time she fell and never offering anything in return, and the realisation that she had done so was a painful one. She needed to make amends for what she’d said and done, and if patching things up with John could be the first catalyst for change, then she would start there. 

She spotted him at once, sat on a curb in the shade of a large Ford Transit van in a bid to escape the sweltering, humid June heat that threatened to rob her of her breath as she crossed the car park towards him. Beside him on the ground, a bunch of carnations were wilting in the oppressive, stifling air, but he snatched them up as she approached nonetheless, holding them up like a peace offering. 

“Hey,” she said softly, sinking down to sit on the warm tarmac beside him and accepting the proffered bouquet, arranging it on her lap and looking down at it to avoid meeting his gaze. 

“Hey.” 

“John, look. I’m, ah… I’m sorry about walking out this morning. We should’ve resolved our discussion first, and I shouldn’t have been all moody and dramatic and just done a runner on you.” 

“I’m the one who should be apologising,” John sighed, ruffling his hair with his hand as he spoke. “I shouldn’t have said all that stuff, because I didn’t mean it; I just panicked. I don’t consider you, or us, to be a mistake. I just… I just hate people thinking ill of you. I hate the fact that their words are colouring the perceptions of people who don’t even know you. I guess I just want to keep you safe. Is that a bad thing? I know it’s probably… oh, I don’t know, against feminism, or against equality, or something, but I just want you to be safe, and happy.” 

“I know,” Clara assured him. “I am happy, I promise. And I feel safe with you. Safer than I’ve felt in a long time.” 

“You have no idea how wonderful it is hearing that. So, to expand on that, just know that I love you and I want this to work, OK? You’re more than entitled to tell me when I’m being a prick, just… please don’t leave me. Not for good, and not like this morning. I didn’t know if you were coming back, and that just… it terrified me, Clara. The thought of losing you nearly broke my heart.” 

“I’m sorry,” she reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “I won’t leave; I promise you I won’t, John. I love you and I want this to work. And I can absolutely tell you when you’re being a prick, if that helps.” 

John chuckled, then reached over and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer and kissing her cheek gently. “My Clara.” 

“Always,” she smiled softly, enjoying the embrace for a moment before the soaring temperature became too much. “You know, it’s a little cooler in the flat. We could go in and have a cuppa, maybe cuddle a little bit without sticking together.” 

“That would be nice, but Amy…” 

“I think Amy would like a cuppa, too. And then I’m going to order takeaway for me and her, and we’re going to have a girls’ night, and I’m going to spend my weekend forsaking marking in favour of looking at bridal magazines and Amy’s obsessive Pinterest boards.” 

“Sounds…” 

“Necessary,” Clara told him firmly. “Necessary to begin making amends.”


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the anniversary of Danny's death, Clara struggles to reconcile her past with him and her future with John.

Clara woke up early on the fourth of July, enjoying a blissful moment of ignorance before her brain kicked into gear and reminded her what day it was. Republic Day in the Philippines. Independence Day in America. For her, in a small flat in Shoreditch, it was exactly a year since Danny’s death, which was an entirely more macabre affair altogether. The weight of his memory — a weight that she had recently found lightening, day by day, as she remembered how to smile and laugh and love once again — settled over her shoulders, weighing down her body and her mood as she rubbed sleep from her eyes and tried to suppress the tears that threatened to fall.

The juxtapositionality of it all was almost laughable. Her American friends would be celebrating the birth of their nation, while she… well, she was trying not to think about it, lest the nausea overtake her and incapacitate her from carrying out what she was somewhat formally thinking of as her “duties.” The birth of a nation and the death of a romance. Yet the death of a romance that had been… not _necessary,_ perhaps, but had needed to play out in order to bring her to where she was now. The thought should have been cheering, but combined with the grief that was clawing its way up her throat, she felt only nausea and a misplaced — or possibly aptly placed, she no longer knew — sense of guilt that she couldn’t fully allay. 

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door, and then Amy stepped over the threshold, her expression unusually subdued as she took in Clara’s wet eyes and downturned mouth. “Hey,” she said quietly, her face a picture of concern. “How are you doing?” 

Clara shrugged, unsure how to elucidate her thoughts. “Dunno,” she clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling her too-long nails dig into her palms, but barely registering the discomfort. “Numb, I guess.” 

“I know,” Amy said softly, sitting beside her and taking her hand. “I know what it’s like and I want you to know I’m here, OK? If you need me, I’m here.” 

“Thanks,” Clara flashed her a tight, restrained smile, getting to her feet and taking a deep breath. “But I’m gonna… they need me at school.” 

“Clara, you don’t have to-” 

“They’ve planned a whole assembly. It would be rude if I didn’t attend.” 

“That’s…” Amy nodded. “That’s really nice of them. Respectful.” 

“Yeah,” Clara sighed, casting her gaze down to the floor and letting her shoulders slump. “Some of the kids are speaking. I wanted to but… you know.” 

“Gonna need you to help me out here.” 

“John.” 

“What’s he got to do with this?”

Clara rolled her eyes a little. “I just… I’d feel hypocritical standing up and telling everyone how much I loved Danny when I’m with John now. I don’t want the kids thinking… you know.” 

“No, I don’t know.” 

“That I’m a slut. I mean. I am, but they don’t need to think it, and they don’t need to think that Miss Oswald is a cold, unfeeling bitch who has already moved on to the next unfortunate man and doesn’t sit around feeling shitty about the fact her boyfriend died,” Clara said in a rush, then burst into tears. “I’m a terrible person.” 

“No,” Amy said at once, getting up and pulling Clara into a hug. “No, you’re not. That’s a load of crap. You know Danny wouldn’t have wanted you to just sit around crying! He’d have wanted you to move on and be happy and have a life, and that’s exactly what you’re doing.” 

“The kids won’t see it like that.” 

“Why? They’re bright. They know you, and they care about you.” 

“Yeah, and at least sixty per cent of their parents read the tabloids, and all think I’m some kind of next-level gold-digging hussy.” 

“S’a good word.” 

“Amy!” 

“What?! It is! I mean, you’re not, but it is!” Amy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Oswald, you are not going to mope today. That is an order. Daniel Pink would want you to smile and remember the good times, and maybe buy him flowers or something, ’cos he was that kind of modern dude.” 

“Flowers are a nice idea,” Clara agreed, her voice wavering. “I’ve ordered some to take down to the cemetery anyway, but I might get some for school, too. I think he’d like that.” 

“He would,” Amy concurred, stroking Clara’s hair. “Now, tame that bedhead and wear the cute shirt he liked, and get your butt down to school for this memorial assembly.”

“God, he’d have been so embarrassed to have a memorial assembly,” Clara murmured, turning away from her flatmate and grabbing her hairbrush. “You know how much he hated attention.” 

“Well, everyone gets attention once they’ve died. Like it or not.” 

“True.” 

“Mels would’ve bloody loved it,” Amy said with a fond, but sad smile. “She’d have revelled in it. Front-row seats to the funeral, throwing ghost-popcorn at all the bitches who went and wept, but hated her when she was alive.” 

Clara laughed a little. “Danny would’ve been so grateful, but embarrassed. He’d’ve just wanted me.” 

“Well, then. You’re going to this memorial, so that’s fine.”

 

* * *

 

Clara wasn’t entirely sure how she made it through the day. She stopped at the local Tesco and bought the biggest, brightest bunch of flowers she could find, somehow made it through the checkout without crying, and then went outside and wept. She walked the pavement to Coal Hill with damp cheeks, the flowers cradled in her arms like the child she and Danny had never had the chance to welcome, and the teenagers surrounding her fell respectfully and dutifully silent as she passed, each offering her a silent nod that she cherished more than any words. Heading into the school building, crowds parted for her as she followed the achingly familiar corridors to Danny’s former classroom, and it was there that she discovered a wall of photos had sprung up overnight, surrounded by floral tributes from students and scrawled notes in handwriting that she was too emotional to recognise, but brought her comfort, nonetheless. 

She set her flowers down, and lowered her head, determined not to let any students see her cry, but instead she found an arm placed around her shoulders and looked across to see April MacLean stood at her side, looking somewhat embarrassed to be seen hugging a teacher, but hugging her anyway.

“We miss him,” April confessed quietly. “All of us. He was very much loved. And he loved you.” 

Clara choked up then, and allowed April to lead her to the memorial assembly, which passed in a blur of upbeat songs and wonderful, laugh-out-loud silly memories of Danny, all accompanied by an aching, lingering sense of grief that seemed at once both more and less acute than that which Clara felt. So many people missed Danny, but none seemed to have the feeling of guilt in their chests that she did. While many had been dismissive of his comments or his assistance within the school environment, and thus felt a sense of culpability for their actions, none of them had betrayed him as completely as she had. 

As she arrived home, almost numb to the aching, dull feeling of loss in her chest and trying to prepare to journey to the local cemetery where Danny was buried in a small, modest grave, Clara was surprised to find John stood on her doorstep, fidgeting from foot to foot and looking agitated. 

“Hey,” he said, concern etched on his face as he appraised her. “You weren’t answering my calls.” 

“Oh,” she replied, casting her mind back to earlier in the day and the dim recollection of her phone ringing. “Sorry.” 

“Are you alright?” he asked, stepping closer to her and reaching for her hand, looking hurt as she pulled away from him. “You look… out of it.” 

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Really fine. So abundantly fine. Won’t be presenting today though. Sorry.” 

“Clara, what’s…” 

Amy stepped outside at that moment, saving her from John’s questions. “John,” she told him bluntly, slipping an arm around Clara’s waist as she spoke. “Today isn’t a good time. Clara and I have places to be.”

“You don’t have to…” Clara protested at once, shaking her head. “You don’t have to come with me.” 

“Clara, I’m not letting you go alone,” Amy said. 

“Go where?” John asked, frowning. “What’s… oh.” 

Clara watched as realisation dawned on him, and his face lit up in understanding before falling into a more sombre expression. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, looking deeply apologetic. “Would you like me to leave?” 

“No,” Clara said before Amy could interject. She was surprised to find herself saying the words, but she ploughed on, nonetheless. “No, stay. Please.” 

“Sure?” 

“Sure,” she confirmed, and John nodded, stepping forwards and kissing her forehead once before allowing her to step inside. A few moments later, Clara emerged carrying an enormous, expensive bunch of flowers that she had ordered especially for today. “Ready?” she asked. 

Amy nodded, and both she and John followed Clara towards the Tube, sitting with her in comfortable silence as they rode the short distance to Liverpool Street Station and then ascended the long, dreary escalators back up to the surface. Clara headed towards the Bunhill Fields Burial Ground with single-minded determination, knowing that if she stopped or stalled, she would never complete the journey, and instead she cursed its ludicrous name for the thousandth time as each step brought her nearer and nearer to having to face up to the uncomfortable facts of her past. 

At the edge of the simple, wooded gardens, she paused, putting her hand on John’s chest and looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Stay here,” she commanded, and, for once, he didn’t question her, only nodded and perched on a nearby bench, offering her a tight smile as he did so. Clara looked to Amy for support, taking her best friend’s hand and heading across to the patch of wildflower-studded grass where Danny lay, and then kneeling at the simple headstone she had chosen in a grief-stricken haze, pressing her fingers to the gilded lettering that spelled out his name. 

“Am I doing the right thing?” she asked the black granite in a quiet voice, and her Scottish companion jumped before realising that she was not being addressed, and instead retreating to the nearest water tap to fill up a vase for Clara’s flowers. “With John. Am I doing the right thing? By moving on?” 

Clara bowed her head, closing her eyes against the glaring summer sun. “I mean, I know you can’t communicate with me anymore. I know that. I just… I just wonder whether you’d think I was doing the right thing.” 

“ _Clara_.” 

She smiled. After all this time, she could still recall a perfect memory of his voice. She shouldn’t have been surprised, yet she was — she’d thought it to be the kind of detail that would’ve been glossed over with the passing of time, but hearing the warmth with which he said her name was enough to bring tears to her eyes. 

“Hey,” she said softly, even though she knew she was only talking to her own subconscious. “It’s been a while.” 

“ _Yeah, it has_ ,” the voice that was both Danny and not-Danny said, chuckling softly. “ _Been a bit busy. And so have you._ ” 

“About that…” 

“ _Clara, I’m not angry,_ ” he sighed, in that fond way he used to when she said something he found frustrating. “ _Far from it._ ”

“You’re not?” 

“ _Clara, I’m not real, and you know that, don’t you? You know that whatever I say is just your brain repeating back what it wants to hear?_ ” 

“Yes, but…” 

“ _But?_ ” 

“I miss you.” 

“ _I know. But I’m setting down a rule, OK? You can miss me for five minutes a day. And you’d better do it properly. You’d better be sad. I expect my five. But all the rest of the time, Clara,_ all _the rest of the time, every single second, you just get the hell on with it. Clear?_ ” 

Clara nodded, her eyes still shut. “Including with John?” 

“ _He makes you happy,_ ” Danny’s voice was soft now. “ _And that’s all I ever wanted for you. Open your eyes, Clara. Open your eyes, and don’t be afraid to be in love with him. It doesn’t make what we had any less real._ ” 

Clara took a deep breath and cracked an eye open experimentally. Amy stood a short distance away, looking somewhat concerned by her flatmate seemingly talking to herself, and John was still where she’d left him: sat on the edge of a bench some distance away, looking down at his hands in what she recognised as an attempt to give her some privacy. She smiled, beckoning Amy over, and unwrapping the flowers she had chosen with a newfound sense of determination and contentment. 

“Are you OK?” Amy asked, crouching beside her and placing the vase down beside the headstone. “You looked a million miles away for a minute.” 

“Yeah, just…” Clara exhaled slowly, unsure how to explain. “Got some closure. I need to let myself move on.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John surprises Clara by whisking her away on a romantic holiday.

John leaned against his car outside the school gates, squinting across the hazy tarmac as he anticipated the flood of sweaty, overexcited teenagers that would soon come pouring from the building, revelling in their newfound freedom as the summer holidays began. John was normally somewhat ambivalent about the summer months — especially given that his general aesthetic was dark clothes and a brooding scowl, which was difficult to maintain in thirty-degree heat — but he now had something to look forward to. Well, some _one_. A five-foot-two someone, who liked summer dresses and floral underwear sets and kissing him until his brain short-circuited. Somehow, summer seemed like a more interesting season when it involved Clara holding his hand and laughing beside him. 

John was torn from his musing by the muted sound of the school bell ringing, and he was unsure whether he was imagining the roaring, pounding noise of hundreds of pairs of feet, stampeding for the exits of the school in an attempt to be free of the place. The doors onto the playground burst open, and John surreptitiously moved around to the side of his car that faced away from the school, readjusting his sunglasses and trying not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He was here to surprise Clara, and that didn’t involve dealing with any pudding-brained schoolchildren or their bigoted parents who happened to read the tabloids. Taking out his phone for the sake of something to do, he was perplexed to find a message from Clara, and he clicked on it with a frown. 

 _I can see you stood outside, you know. You’re cute._  

He smiled a soft, easy smile and looked across to the low red-brick buildings, poking his tongue out for half a second. A minute later, his phone vibrated in his hand by way of response. 

 _Cheeky. Be out in five. Or you could come in?_  

He typed out a reply, trying to find the appropriate line between teasing and pragmatic. _And face the flood of hormone-fuelled teens? I’ll wait in the car._

He ducked inside the vehicle and took out his paper, flicking through the pages until he found the crossword puzzle and resigning himself to the wait. He knew Clara would take longer than the usual five minutes — it _was_ the last day of term, after all, and she would want to say goodbye to her colleagues before the long break — and that there was no point sitting and worrying about the absence of her from his arms, because after today she was solely his for the next six weeks. It was a pleasant thought, and he smiled to himself as he clicked his pen and filled in the first answer, losing himself in the cryptic clues.

“Hey,” a familiar voice chimed, jolting him out of his train of thought what felt like seconds later, and he grinned, not looking up from the newspaper. “Got any fiendish clues you need solving?” 

“Mm,” he hummed, tapping his pen against the page and enjoying teasing her. “Twelve across. Eight letters. ‘Words uttered by radio DJ to English teacher.’” 

Clara fell silent for half a beat, then half-asked, half-stated: “‘I love you’?” 

“That’s my line,” he murmured, putting the paper down and leaning over to kiss her. “Also, you could sound a little surer.” 

“You know I love you, daft old man.” 

“I’m only teasing, love,” he kissed her again and she giggled, her hand coming up to rest on his cheek as he pressed her forehead against hers and smiled fondly. “Hello. Happy summer holidays.” 

“Thank you,” she dropped her gaze to her lap in a surprisingly shy gesture he didn’t fully understand. “A whole six weeks of me inflicting my company on you.” 

“I was thinking more a whole six weeks of us not leaving bed,” John deadpanned, and Clara snorted. “What? Not up for it?” 

“I think we might stick together in this heat,” she wrinkled her nose as he started the engine. “And while, you know, sex with you is great and all, the mood might be ruined if Amy had to come and prise us apart.” 

“Excellent point,” he acquiesced, pulling away from the kerb and trying to suppress a grin. “You know, I did have something else in mind, too.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

John shot her a quick glance, realising that all attempts to contain his excitement would be fruitless, and instead simply stating: “Like Florence.” 

He was met with a brief, confused silence, and then: “As in the singer, or the place?” 

“The place,” he clarified, waving a hand vaguely. “You know. In Italy.” 

“Well, what were you thinking of? Specifically? Like, was it a general ‘it exists’ sort of thought, or what?” 

“No, I was thinking about going there,” John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Clara was usually much quicker on the uptake than this, but then again, it wasn’t usually thirty-two degrees. “The two of us. On a romantic holiday, together in Tuscany.” 

“That would be…” Clara considered the idea for a minute, then beamed. “Nice. Really nice, actually. I haven’t been on holiday for years.” 

“Good,” John chuckled. “Because we’re going to the airport.” 

“We’re _what_?! Now?! But I haven’t packed anything! I don’t have any luggage! Or my passport!” 

“Relax,” John assured her, reaching over and taking her hand. “Amy packed for you — under my supervision, so don’t look so worried. I vetoed the eighty-five bikinis in favour of nice dresses. She also gave me your passport.” 

“Hang on, did you two conspire against me for the sake of Mediterranean sun?” 

“Maybe just a little,” John grinned, then felt a swooping sense of panic that maybe he had overstepped some unspoken line by surprising her with such a romantic gesture. “Would that be OK? Florence for a week?” 

“John, I don’t know what to say. This is…” 

“You don’t know what to say in a good way?” John pulled over to the side of the road and shot her a worried look. “Or a bad way?” 

“A good way,” she told him, squeezing his hand. “Very much a good way. This is… really sweet of you. No one’s ever surprised me like this before.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy, you wonderful, adorable, sneaky man.” 

“Well, I aim to please,” he chuckled. “Did-”

“Oh, my god,” Clara’s face fell. “What about the show? We can’t just take off for a week!” 

“Clara,” he told her calmly. “Journey is covering for us. Raz talked her into it, and she agreed — but Amy gets to choose the music, else god knows what would happen.” 

“Oh,” Clara nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. So… holiday.” 

“Yes, holiday. Cute little Tuscan retreat, and… oh, did I mention we’re flying business class, milady?” he grinned mischievously.

“You are just…” Clara’s face was unreadable, flickering through several different emotions before settling on pleased. “Very sweet.” 

“I try.”

 

* * *

 

John clambered out of their tiny, somewhat-decrepit hired Fiat and admired their accommodation for the week as he rolled his shoulders to alleviate some of the stiffness that had settled over his joints since landing in Italy. The place wasn’t anything overblown or enormous; a small cottage, tucked against the side of a hillside overlooking the Tuscan landscape and overgrown with honeysuckle and wisteria, with a blue-painted front door in a shade that would’ve looked out of place in London, but seemed perfectly natural here in the rolling hills around Florence.

“Wow,” Clara said as she stepped out onto the uneven driveway, still a touch shaken from the drive here over rutted country roads. She cast an admiring glance at the cottage, then turned her attention to the view, inhaling the country air. “This is surprisingly cute for you.” 

“Hey!” he teased, feigning offence. “What do you mean ‘for me’?” 

“I thought you were more about like, gothic castles. Or minimalism. Much more your thing.” 

“Well, usually I am,” he acquiesced. “But my tiny girlfriend is very much about small chic cottages with rustic views, so sacrifices are being made. Besides, it’s hard to do minimalism in Tuscany, and the castles are disappointingly not-gothic.” 

“Idiot.” 

“ _Your_ idiot.”

“Always.”

“Wanna head inside while I fetch the bags?” he asked, and Clara hesitated, evidently caught between helping him carry their luggage and wanting to explore. Although he was touched by her reluctance, he was determined to be the perfect gentleman, and he knew precisely how to achieve his goal. “You know, there’s a swimming pool somewhere behind one of these hedges, go find that.” 

Clara grinned from ear to ear and disappeared like a shot, and a moment later there was a loud splash and a shriek which confirmed to him that she had indeed found the pool, and dived into it to escape the heat. Chuckling to himself, John grabbed their cases and headed inside, setting the bags down in the small bedroom before wandering outside in search of his girlfriend. 

He found her floating on her back in the pool, still wearing the summer dress she had left Coal Hill in, and staring blissfully up the clear blue sky above her. 

“You know, you’re supposed to undress before you go swimming.” 

She laughed. “Yeah, well. I’m wearing pretty grotty underwear under here, so this is frankly an improvement. Not to mention a total aesthetic. Hello, Pinterest levels of artiness.” 

“You know,” he mused, narrowing his eyes. “You could just skip the underwear, too. It’s not like there’s anyone around to see.” 

“John Smith,” she said in a stern tone, repositioning herself so that she was approximately vertical and treading water. “Are you encouraging me to skinny dip?” 

“Yes,” he told her, in an equally serious tone. “I absolutely, definitely am.” 

She rolled her eyes fondly. “I might consider it. Will you be joining me?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” he assured her, peeling off his T-shirt and tossing it aside before he could think better of the idea. “Come on. Strip.” 

“Excuse me,” she chided, swimming over to the edge of the pool. “I’m the bossy one in this relationship.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re also currently disappointingly clothed.” 

“You know, it’s almost like you want to live up to the tabloid stereotype,” Clara joked as she unzipped her dress and dumped the wet garment on the side of the pool without any of her usual fussing about creases or folding or hangers. “I could get on board with that, though. I’d be one hundred per cent less clothed at all times.” 

“I mean, I’m not complaining,” John looked down at her, garbed only in a plain white bra and pants set and with her hair slicked down against her head. He tried not to think anything inappropriate, but she was making it increasingly difficult. “You look gorgeous in any state of dress. Or undress. Speaking of which, that underwear seems fine.”

“John, darling,” she told him, tilting her head to the side and smiling in a loving manner. “Would you know or care if it wasn’t?” 

“Point,” he acquiesced, undoing his jeans and stepping out of them as she undid her bra and chucked it towards her soggy dress. “All underwear is good underwear if you’re wearing it.” 

Clara laughed, her cheeks tinged pink, and he could tell she was pleased by the compliment. “Bless you.” 

“What?” he asked with sincerity. “It is. Anything would look good if you wore it.” 

“Oh, really? How about a bin bag?” 

“Yep.” 

“A potato sack?” 

“Solid yes.” 

“A pillow case?”

“Bed linen has never looked more beautiful.” 

“God, you’re cute,” Clara told him, then winked. “Also overdressed. Lose the pants.” 

“I will if you do,” he challenged, quirking an eyebrow down at her. “You first.” 

“Fine,” Clara rolled her eyes and reached underwater, removing the last of her clothing and laying it on the side of the pool with a flourish. “Happy?” 

“Very,” John confirmed, kicking off his boxers and then cannonballing into the water beside Clara, who yelped in complaint. “Hi.” 

“Hi. I’m all wet now, thanks.” 

“You were wet before!”

“That is _totally_ beside the point,” Clara poked her tongue out at him and sculled across the pool so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. “So, we’re doing romance, are we?” 

“Mm,” John murmured, leaning down and kissing her neck languidly. “We are.” 

“Does romance include us having sex in the pool?” 

John raised his eyebrows, momentarily thrown by her comment. “Well,” he began, as Clara dissolved into giggles. “I urm. I think maybe… we should wait until we get back inside. Hygiene and all that.” 

“Well,” Clara said with a theatrical sigh, pulling away from him and adopting her earlier position of floating on her back, starfish-like. “It had better be worth the wait…”


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Tuscany, Clara and John celebrate the anniversary of their first conversation.

“Morning,” Clara trilled brightly, backing into their bedroom with a tray before shooting her best teacher-glare at their bed. “Rise and shine, John.”

“Nooooo,” he protested, rolling over and yanking the sheets over his head with a groan. “Don’t wanna. It’s too early to get up. What time even is it?” 

“Eight thirty,” Clara informed him, setting the tray down on the bed with caution and then approaching the window and pulling the curtains open. The sun spilled in, casting John into a pool of soft yellow light that only made him groan all the louder. “Time to get up and enjoy Tuscany.” 

“It’s a holiday,” John whined, his voice more petulant than that of some of her teenage students. “I want to have a lie-in, ideally with the woman I love cuddled up next to me.” 

“The woman you love got up and made breakfast,” Clara teased, perching beside John and ruffling his hair. “Proper Italian coffee, fresh pastries, and I made us both yoghurt and granola bowls, because then we can at least pretend we’re being healthy.” 

From his position under the duvet, John twisted around so he could see her, then raised an eyebrow somewhat theatrically. “I’m Glaswegian.” 

“Yes, and your point is?”

“I dinnae do healthy.” 

“Well, you do now,” Clara snapped, feeling a stab of irritation that her thoughtful gesture wasn’t being appreciated, and getting up and stalking over to the small balconette. She’d really hoped John would remember what day it was, and, if not, she’d hoped that breakfast in bed might be enough to jog his memory and remind him of the special day, but she was apparently wrong. Leaning on the wooden balustrade, still dressed only in her pyjamas, she sighed as she looked out over the rolling Tuscan hills and tried to allay her misplaced — or perhaps rightly placed — sense of disappointment. She supposed it didn’t matter what day it was. What mattered was that John had brought her on this gorgeous holiday, and- 

“Hey,” John said softly, and Clara jumped as he came to stand behind her. He carefully lifted her hair and twisted it to one side, his arms encircling her waist as he pressed a chaste kiss to her neck, and she could tell he was smiling from the soft lilt to his voice. “Happy One-Year-Since-You-Phoned-In Anniversary. You didn’t really think I’d forget, did you?” 

Without turning away from the view, she elbowed him gently in the ribs and tried to damp down the huge, goofy grin spreading across her face for the sake of appearing chastising. “You absolute _arse_.” 

“You wound me,” he deadpanned, and then reached up, hanging a fine silver chain around her neck before doing up the clasp with care, his fingers ghosting over the skin of her neck before his hands came to rest on her stomach. “Happy anniversary, my Impossible Girl.” 

Clara looked down at the necklace, finding a small red heart-shaped pendant engraved with the words _Tiffany & Co. _hung from it. “John…” she managed, touched by the gesture. “You didn’t have to…” 

“I wanted to,” he murmured, kissing the nape of her neck again. “I wanted to get something linked to the idea of July, so I checked online, and the birthstone for July is ruby. Only rubies are a bit…” she sensed, rather than saw, the grimace he made. “Over the top, so I thought I’d compromise with red. You like red.” 

“I like red,” Clara whispered, twisting in her arms so that she was facing him, and now no longer caring about seeming stern. “And I might have mentioned it, but I love you, you sweet, kind, wonderful man.” 

“Maybe once or twice,” John joked, before leaning down obligingly so that Clara could kiss him. “I love you, Clara Oswald.”

Clara knew that her grin was only growing wider at the three words, but she didn’t care. It had been three months now since he first said it to her, but she still adored hearing him say the words; still adored the rush of happiness she felt when he held her to his chest and reaffirmed that he loved her. She had spent so long pining and wishing and hoping that he might one day reciprocate her feelings that it was still a novelty that he did, and she felt her cheeks flush red and hid her face in his chest before he could comment. “Say it again,” she mumbled shyly. “Please.” 

“I love you,” he said obligingly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

She giggled and pulled back, looking up at him with the kind of soppy expression she generally loathed on other people, but deemed perfectly acceptable when she did it. “In love with you and in love with hearing that.” 

John chuckled. “I know,” he hummed. “Now, I do believe you made us a celebratory breakfast, and it’s getting cold. Can we go back to bed and have morning cuddles and coffee, please?”

“Absolutely,” Clara agreed, heading back towards bed and arranging herself on the mass of soft, cotton sheets and pillows, before reaching for a mug of coffee. “To us,” she toasted, raising the mug as John got back into bed beside her and reached for his own cup, clinking it against hers. “And to Tuscany.” 

“To us, and to Tuscany,” John echoed, before taking a large swig of coffee and closing his eyes in bliss. “Dear god, that’s incredible. We’re buying enough of this to last us until next year.” 

“Next year?” Clara asked, raising an eyebrow and grabbing a pastry. 

“We’re coming back to Italy next year,” John decided, taking another sip. “If only so I can stock up on this coffee.” 

“I mean,” Clara munched on the croissant she was holding, looking thoughtful. “We could do Venice.” 

“I like this idea,” John concurred. “I like this idea a lot.” 

She laughed. “Well then,” she sipped at her coffee delicately. “Venice it is. Although we could just get you this coffee online. Or try to.”

“But then I don’t get to enjoy you in summer dresses, eating gelato, and generally looking adorable.”

“God, you’re soft.” 

“Guilty as charged,” John grinned. “Can I help that my tiny girlfriend is extremely attractive? No, I cannot.” 

“I’m not,” Clara denied, looking down at the duvet and allowing her hair to fall across her face, but John reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear, tilting her chin up so that he could meet her gaze. 

“You are,” he said in a low, fond voice. “To me, always.”

“You’re going to make me cry.” 

“Well,” one side of his mouth turned up into a smile. “You’d best stop arguing, so I don’t have to keep telling you, then. Although…” he chuckled. “I think I’ll keep telling you anyway. You look cute when you blush.”

 

* * *

 

Clara stepped out of the car and looked around the small village square that John had parked in, enjoying the tranquillity of the surroundings compared to the deafening bustle of London that they were both so used to. “Where are we going?” she asked for the thousandth time since they left the cottage. “Come on. You’ve been so mysterious all afternoon, please just tell me.”

“We’re going for dinner, I thought that much was evident.” 

Clara rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah. But where?” 

John jerked his thumb towards a side street in a vague sort of way. “Down there.” 

“You know, gesticulating to a whole street _really_ narrows it down.” 

“Stop whining,” John complained good-naturedly, taking her by the hand and then pulling her closer so that he could wrap his arm around her waist. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

Clara pretended to hesitate for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine,” she acquiesced. “I trust your judgement. Mostly.” 

“That’s my girl,” John beamed, and began leading her down the narrow street he had indicated to a moment ago. Devoid of streetlamps, Clara was forced to rely on the dim evening light to find her way over the cobbles, and she was grateful for John’s arms around her; a reassuring presence in the half-light. Somewhere along the way, the warm, delicious aroma of garlic and olive oil drifted towards them, and Clara breathed deeply, her stomach growling in anticipation of a hearty meal. 

“Please tell me we’re going to where that smell is coming from,” she asked in awe. “Because, if not, I might cry.” 

John chuckled. “Yes, that’s where we’re heading. And for the record, given that we’re in Tuscany, I’d recommend the tagliatelle.” 

“Duly noted.” 

The street turned ninety degrees, then widened unexpectedly, revealing a small courtyard filled with tables and chairs. Clara looked around at the soft, faded-orange stonework of the surrounding buildings, enjoying the warmth that seemed to emanate from them, before her attention was captured by a skinny street cat that wound itself round her ankles, purring throatily as it did so.

“Aww,” she cooed, crouching down to stroke it. It nudged itself up against her palm and mewed, looking from her to John and then back again. “John, can we keep it?” 

“No,” he said firmly, and she pouted. “Clara.” 

“But it’s cute, and it looks hungry!” 

“Clara, it’s the Italian countryside. There’s hundreds of cats, and we can’t keep all of them.” 

“Can so.” 

“Can’t.” 

“Can’t we start a cat sanctuary?” 

“No.” 

“That was my backup plan, you know,” she teased, looking up at John and tipping him a wink. “If you and I didn’t work out, I was going to retire to a really big house someplace in Europe and have hundreds of cats.” 

John faked a groan. “Dear god, not a crazy cat lady.” 

“I’m not a crazy cat lady. You occurred, so I’m a crazy _John_ lady.” 

He laughed, holding out a hand to her, and she straightened up with a grin. “Come on, you,” he told her. “Dinner, then we’ll see if we can find you some more cats to stroke.” 

Clara nodded reluctantly, casting a last lingering glance at the feline, before John led her across the square to a small restaurant that seemed deserted. Sticking his head inside, Clara half-expected John to attempt to attract someone’s attention in English, but, to her considerable, surprise he instead called out: “Ehi? Ci sono persone?” 

A grinning Italian man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and immediately engaged in a top-speed conversation with John, who put an arm around Clara and grinned as they were led outside to a table. 

“Umm,” she asked under her breath, as she took a seat and tried not to gawk at John too obviously. “Since when did you speak Italian?” 

“I’ll explain later,” John said as the waiter handed them each a menu and then vanished back inside. “What are we drinking?” 

“Lemonade, I guess,” she shrugged, casting an eye over the wine menu with a vague sense of longing, but knowing it would be unfair on John to drink when he wasn’t. She’d done it once before, at the Radio Awards, but that had been a far less intimate setting, and guilt had nagged at her for days afterwards, so soft drinks it was. “Please.” 

“Are you sure?” John furrowed his brow. “You can have wi-” 

“John,” she said firmly, determined not to tempt him. “No. I’m not going to test you like that.” 

“But I’m…” 

“No,” she said, shooting him a warning look, and he nodded, unable to keep from looking a tiny bit touched by her gesture. “And maybe we could have water for the table?” 

“That’s a given,” he assured her, reaching over and resting his hand on hers. “I’d recommend panzanella to start, and then the tagliatelle al tartufo.” 

“What’s 'al tartufo'?” 

“‘With truffles.’”

“Ooh, decadent,” Clara scanned the menu quickly, realising she didn’t understand a word, and then shrugged. “I trust your judgement. And your Italian. I’ll let you order.”

John nodded, and when the waiter reappeared bearing a carafe of water and a basket of fresh bread, he placed their order with a smile, not letting go of Clara’s hand as he did so. 

“È una donna bellissima,” the waiter said, looking from Clara to John and then back again with a knowing smile. “Sei un tipo troppo fortunato.” 

“Grazie,” John turned a delicate shade of red, but seemed pleased. “Sì, lo so.” 

The waiter nodded, apparently satisfied with John’s response, before heading back towards the interior of the restaurant. 

“What did he say?” Clara asked, frowning slightly. “I mean, I got the gist.” 

“Oh?” John asked with a smirk, pouring them each a glass of water. “Which was?” 

“Urm,” Clara’s cheeks turned pink. “That I’m very pretty, and you’re lucky?” 

“I thought you didn’t speak Italian,” John teased. “Yes, that’s what he said.”

“How come you speak Italian?” Clara asked, then held up a warning finger. “You said you’d tell me later. It’s later. Explain.” 

“It’s not that much later!” 

“It is!” she argued, intrigued by whatever story lay behind John’s mastery of the language. “Spill.” 

John sighed, suddenly looking weary. “Fine,” he muttered unwillingly. “River used to work over here a lot; she specialised in Roman history, so it was sort of a given. She had to learn it at home, and she needed someone to practice with.” He gave an awkward little wave. “Hello, I was that someone.” 

“Why was that so difficult to tell me?” 

“Because I don’t want to spend a romantic holiday banging on about my dead wife?” 

“John,” Clara gave him a look. “She was your wife for twenty-two years. I’m not going to begrudge you for mentioning her.” 

“I know,” he cast his gaze down to the breadbasket, looking embarrassed. “I just don’t want you think I’m comparing you or anything.” 

“I know,” Clara assured him, before adopting a cheeky grin. “Believe me, though. I’m comparing myself to her a little right now. Like, why can’t I speak Italian? Damn.” 

It took John a moment to look up and realise she was joking, but then his mouth twitched into a grateful smile. “I mean, it’s not all that widely spoken,” he reasoned seriously. “Maybe Spanish could be more practical?”

“Or French,” Clara reasoned. “Language of love.” 

“Clara, darling, anything you say is the language of love.” 

Clara couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, amused by John’s thoroughly romantic, thoroughly melodramatic declaration. “Oh, my god. You cliché.” 

“What?!” he looked affronted. “It is!” 

“You ridiculous, loved-up idiot,” Clara said fondly. “Never change.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my friend Georgie for advising me on the Italian.
> 
> The necklace John gives Clara can be found [here](http://www.tiffany.com/jewelry/necklaces-pendants/return-to-tiffany-heart-tag-charm-GRP09432?fromGrid=1&search_params=p+1-n+10000-c+287465-s+5-r+-t+-ni+1-x+-lr+-hr+-ri+-mi+-pp+0+&search=0&origin=browse&searchkeyword=&trackpdp=bg&fromcid=287465) and Clara's date outfit can be seen on Jenna [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/BHVUbq1BgFp/).


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara visits Bonnie to talk baby, and her cousin reveals some surprising news...

Clara sighed, plonking herself down on the enormous sofa that adorned Bonnie’s new lounge and fanning herself with a nearby cushion in lieu of any available fans. “It’s hot,” she complained breathlessly. “It’s _way_ too hot.”

“Excuse me,” Bonnie noted, raising an eyebrow from her position on an adjacent armchair. “You’re not pregnant. Imagine how shit this weather is when you’re pregnant.” 

Clara paused for a moment, weighing up Bonnie’s words. “OK, fair point.” 

“Also, could you maybe sweat a bit less on my sofa? I’m not overly sure how wipe-clean it is.” 

“Says the person who just complained of being pregnant and hot and thus, by de facto, sweaty, and yet is sat on an armchair in a dress? Aren’t you gonna stick to it?” 

“Shut up,” Bonnie poked her tongue out in a decidedly half-hearted manner, having apparently decided that even doing that was too much effort. “I’m pregnant, I’m allowed to sweat on things.” 

“Isn’t being pregnant just your excuse for everything?” 

“More or less, yeah,” Bonnie grinned mischievously at Clara, who had a sudden, vivid recollection of that same expression on Bonnie’s face some twenty years ago, back when they used to get cause mayhem down on Blackpool seafront. “Anyway, this can’t be that hot compared to Tuscany. You jammy cow, I can’t believe he took you to Italy for a week, just like that. _Such_ a romantic.” 

“Believe me, nor can I,” Clara sighed blissfully as she cast her mind back to the Tuscan countryside. “It was glorious. I think I put on a good half a stone from all the pasta and pastries and fruit though.” 

“And here I was thinking you’d be burning off all the carbs with non-stop holiday sex.”

“Hey!” Clara protested, trying to stifle her giggles and maintain a stern demeanour. “I’m allowed to say that, you’re not!” 

“It’s not my fault he’s old and sexually unsatisfying.” 

“He is neither old _nor_ sexually unsatisfying.” 

“So how come you had time to do anything other than shag?” 

“Because,” Clara explained tartly, trying to look wounded, “we are mature adults who wanted to appreciate the culture of the surrounding area.”

“Refractory period,” Bonnie said with a knowing nod. “Got it.” 

Clara threw a cushion at her cousin, who yelped and lobbed it straight back at her. The effort of doing so tired both women out, and they both slumped back in their respective chairs with identical groans of complaint. 

“I mean, if we’re making underhand comments about sex lives,” Clara said, in an innocent tone, “I assume Will just spent the night here because you were so busy talking about baby things that he fell asleep on the sofa?”

“Will didn’t spend the night here,” Bonnie said tartly, although her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “I don’t know what gave you th-” 

“Bonnie, there’s a pair of pants next to me on the sofa.” 

Bonnie groaned, reaching over and snatching them up. “Shut up,” she muttered, chucking them in the general direction of the hallway and — Clara presumed — her laundry basket. “Yes, OK, we… do stuff. Sometimes romantic, sometimes not. It’s not against the law. He’s the father of my kid, and he is basically letting me live in his annexe rent-free. I do kinda owe it to him.” 

“That sounds a bit… prostitute-y.” 

“I mean,” Bonnie pondered the thought for a moment. “I would argue no, because it’s usually my idea, and he’s hot, and also generally quite appealing. There are definitely worse people to mess around with.” 

“Fair point,” Clara acquiesced, looking around at the simple, pared-back, yet undoubtedly expensive décor. “This is a nice flat, by the way. Well. Annexe. Flat. Basement. Whatever you want to call it.”

“‘Basement’ is kind of grim,” Bonnie wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Sounds a bit dungeon-like. ‘Annexe’ is Will’s choice, but he’s posh, so there’s no accounting for taste. Having said that, though… yeah, it’s nice. We’ve gotta do the nursery still, but I thought maybe you might like to help with that? Given that, you know, you’re the organised and creative one, and I’m totally not.” 

“Is that a formal invitation to come and decorate your nursery and arrange the wardrobe for you by season, size, and colour?” 

“I guess?” Bonnie made a face. “If that wouldn’t be weird for you.” 

“Why would that be weird for me?”

“I know it was weird, before,” Bonnie looked suddenly apologetic. “With the scan.”

“It wasn’t-” 

“Clara, I know you,” Bonnie said gently. “I know what you’re like, and I know it was hard. I know how much you wanted kids, and just… I don’t want you to do the nursery if it’ll upset you. Don’t feel like you have to say yes just because I’m your cousin.” 

“It won’t upset me,” Clara assured her, and she realised suddenly that some of her sense of missing out on having kids was easing, possibly because of Bonnie, but possibly because of John. Now that she had a partner again, there was the ever-present possibility of… well, _that._ “Besides…” 

“Please tell me you’re not pregnant, because that will grossly upstage what I’m about to do.” 

“I’m not pregnant!” Clara said at once, aghast at the very thought. She’d not been with John long enough to even begin contemplating settling down and starting a family, although the latter portion of the idea was appealing, and there was nothing to prevent them from having children at a later date, except possibly John’s age and their living situation. “Just… you know, I have a man now. A nice one. So, never say never.” 

Bonnie laughed, resting her hands on her bump and stroking gently in a way that Clara had seen many of her friends do. “Excellent. Because this little bub is gonna need playmates.” 

“Doesn’t Will…” 

“Only child,” Bonnie sighed, looking pleading. “Therefore, as my cousin, it falls on you to help out.” 

“I’m not procreating for the sake of your offspring’s social life,” something dawned on Clara. “Wait, you said you were about to do something. What is it?” 

“Well, I have a wonderful piece of news about the baby.” 

“Are you having twins? Dear god, please tell me you aren’t. I don’t think I could cope with babysitting two little terrors.” 

“Terrors?” Bonnie feigned a look of great indignation. “My children will be angels.”

Clara blanched. “Child _ren_?” 

“That was including potential future ones!” Bonnie assured her. “But no, really, no. I’m not having twins. It’s ah… well…”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be scared,” Bonnie smiled, and Clara tried to allay the creeping sense of panic that was clawing its way up her throat. “Will and I really wanted to know what we were having, because… I don’t know, the gender binary is stupid and all but we wanted to be able to consider names and things like that. But what with little one being a Ravenwood, and thus an awkward little bugger at the best of times… they didn’t want to co-operate when it came to my twenty-week scan.” 

“Little one is already a chip off the old block, then?” 

“Exactly. Anyway… we went for a gender scan yesterday. Privately.” 

“Oh?” Clara arched an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re not having a gender-reveal party or anything really gross and clichéd like that, because I _will_ have to kill you, and also have to lock all attendees in a room and tell them all that gender is a horrible social construct, and that it’s a sliding scale with no fixed binary and that-” 

“It’s a boy,” Bonnie blurted, interrupting Clara’s tirade. “We’re… we’re having a boy.” 

“Oh!” Clara’s face lit up. “Really?” 

“Yes, really,” Bonnie smiled nervously. “I mean, he’s going to be really gender-neutral and stuff and we don’t want him to be all in blue all the time because that’s just weird and over-the-top and we want him to be open-minded and have dolls and pink things, too, but… yeah, a boy.” 

“Do you have a name planned yet?” 

“Well, I’ve been thinking about this since I knew he existed, and I decided I want to name him after your mum. I mean, if he was a girl, I would’ve. But he’s not, so urm…” 

“After mum?” Clara interrupted, her eyes filling with tears. 

“Well, yeah,” Bonnie looked abruptly concerned. “I mean, if that’s alright? I just… you know how much I loved her, and I know how much you miss her, and I thought it might be nice for both of us. If that would be OK. _Is_ it OK?” 

“Of course it is,” Clara said emphatically, dabbing at her eyes and then smiling shakily. “Just a bit of a surprise.” 

Bonnie nodded, looking pleased. “But anyway, he’s not a girl, so ‘Elena’ is out, and I’m not sold on ‘Elliot,’ so… ‘Elijah’? Is that too posh?” 

“That’s quite posh,” Clara weighed it over, mentally saying the name a few times to get a feel for it. “And you know he’s gonna get _Lord of the Rings_ jokes, right?” 

“Yep.” 

“Good, just a forewarning from one nerd to another. I like it, though. What would you shorten it to?” 

“‘Eli,’ probably,” Bonnie chewed her lip. “Will wants to middle-name him ‘Augustus.’” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“I wish I was.” 

“That’s…” Clara gave Bonnie a look, and then both cousins burst into simultaneous laughter. “Oh, my god,” Clara managed, when they’d both managed to compose themselves fractionally. “Now _that’s_ … posh.” 

“I know,” Bonnie groaned. “And he’s going to have a double-barrelled surname to boot, the poor kid.” 

“Wow,” Clara weighed up this new piece of information. “Ravenwood-Bowman?”

“Nah,” Bonnie wrinkled her nose. “Bowman-Ravenwood. Gotta be alphabetical.” 

“Of course. That’s fancy, but I kind of like it. It’s aspirational.”

“What would you and John do?” Bonnie asked out of nowhere, and Clara blinked at her, thrown by the question. “I mean, if you two had kids?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“I mean, surname-wise. Would you hyphenate the two? I know you hate your surname, but ‘Smith’ is a bit generic, and if you try to go all Benedict Cumberbatch on the poor kid for the sake of individuality then-” 

“Bonnie, we’re not gonna have kids,” Clara held her hands up. “Really. I mean… I know earlier I said maybe… but I think it’s too late for him, and I’m not so sure about the idea. They seem like a lot of work and stress. No offence, or anything.” 

“None taken,” Bonnie shrugged, then winked. “They’d be cute kids, you know. Just saying.” 

“I know,” Clara sighed. “But I just… I don’t think they’ll ever come into being. Maybe we’ll just have lots of dogs instead.”

“Or cats?” 

“Or cats.” 

“You don’t have to have kids if you don’t want,” Bonnie said in a gentle voice, reaching over and taking her cousin’s hand. “I mean, god knows, I wouldn’t be by choice — it wasn’t in my life plan. But this little bub…” she ran a hand over the curve of her bump, “is actually making me really happy. If not having kids makes you happy, Clara, then you don’t have to have them. Besides, you can totally share mine. All the fun, and none of the agony of childbirth.” 

Clara looked down, considering Bonnie’s words for a moment, before looking up with a wicked glint in her eye. “Can I feed them sugar, then send them home?” 

“Absolutely, but only if I can yell at you about it.” 

“Then we have a deal. Now, nursery-wise, what are you thinking?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bonnie sighed. “Not blue. Please not blue. At least, not everywhere.” 

“Well, I’m sure I can come up with something original. Just give me an evening, and some Pinterest boards.”

 

* * *

 

Clara was sat on the lounge carpet with her laptop on the coffee table and a notebook next to her when John arrived that evening. Not that she paid any attention to the doorbell ringing, because she was ten pages into Mothercare’s selection of newborn baby clothes, and scowling more deeply with each multipack of gendered babygrows that she encountered.

“Clara!” Amy called from the hallway, and Clara jumped, clicking an errant link onscreen and swearing under her breath. “Your boyfriend is here, so maybe stop what you’re doing and pretend to be sociable.” 

“Shan’t,” Clara yelled back, looking down at her notepad and underlining her earlier note of _the gender binary sucks_. “John, come ‘ere.” 

John sidled into the lounge, and Clara turned to him, noting the packet of tortilla chips he was holding with approval. “I come bearing…”

His entire face fell as he took in her laptop screen, and Clara turned back to it and took in what she had apparently clicked on. 

 _How to tell if you’re pregnant._

John’s face went very, very pale, and he sank down onto the sofa with a shell-shocked expression. “Clara?” he managed in a somewhat strangled tone. “Clara, are you…”

She rolled her eyes, amazed by his obtuseness. 

“Oh yeah,” she said brightly. “I’ve found some really cute baby clothes online, you should take a look.” 

“I…” he stammered. “You… I… we… you’re…” 

“Oh my god, John, _no_ ,” she exclaimed, before continuing patiently and slowly: “we only had sex for the first time four weeks ago. I have an IUD. The chances of it happening are less than one percent.”  

“So, why…” 

“Pregnant cousin,” she reminded him, and she watched the penny drop, the relief on his face almost tangible. “You’ve met her. About my height, brunette, huge brown eyes. Bonnie. Remember her? Is that cutting through the pregnancy panic?” 

John’s panicked look abated, and he took a deep breath, looking somewhat sheepish. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Right. Bonnie. Sorry. Brain just sort of… died.” 

“You idiot.” 

“Sorry,” he said again, blushing furiously. “I just…” 

“Would it be so bad if I was?” Clara asked, half-annoyed and half-curious. “I mean, really, would it?” 

“I don’t know,” he shrugged noncommittally, avoiding her gaze. “Not really… I mean, if it happens, it happens. But maybe not for a while yet. Let’s let the IUD do its job.” 

“Yes, let’s,” Clara said drily. “Now, can we eat nachos and look at baby clothes, or is that too panic-inducing for you?”

“Shut up,” he muttered. “Go on, show me what you’ve found.”


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara, John, IKEA, and a shopping list of nursery furniture. What could possibly go wrong?

Clara had spent, she was reasonably willing to estimate, at least fifty per cent of the last month scrolling through Pinterest boards, assessing colour swatches and browsing the IKEA website in her quest to create the perfect nursery for Bonnie’s newborn. John, to her considerable surprise, seemed content with spending evenings perched on the sofa beside her, a notebook with the exact dimensions of the nursery-to-be resting upon his lap as Clara scrutinised furniture and measurements and colour schemes, until eventually, _eventually,_ one evening in mid-August, she concluded that it was no good just looking at the website, and that a trip to an actual IKEA store was very much required. Which is how they came to find themselves in Tottenham one afternoon, with a shopping list as long as Clara’s arm and a sense of steely determination.

“Clara,” John said warningly, as they sat in the car in the car park, staring at the enormous blue and yellow entrance to the store. “You do know that tongues will wag, right? You, me, nursery furniture.” 

“Yep.” 

“And you do know this will _definitely_ end up in the tabloids, yeah?” 

“Of course.” 

“So…” 

“John, it’s IKEA Tottenham, at lunchtime on a Friday. It will be fine. If all else fails, we can just tell the truth. And, if that fails, at least we can sell hilarious made-up stories to the _Sun,_ and watch them lose their tiny minds.” 

“Point,” John grimaced nonetheless, then took the keys out of the ignition and visibly steeled himself. “OK, let’s go.” 

Clara nodded and stepped out of the car, immediately handing their shopping list to John as she slung her bag over her shoulder, extracted a tape measure, and tried to look more confident than she felt. OK, yes, she could pretend that she wasn’t bothered by the tabloid press speculating over whether she was pregnant, but a small part of it nagged at her feminist conscience, and she scowled at no one in particular, hating the thought of her students and friends having to read such trash. Although, then again, her father apparently read the _Sun_ now, so it might do him some good to have a little scare. He’d been nothing but icily polite on the subject of John thus far, while Linda had stayed mercifully mute on the subject, and, although Clara was still working up to taking John to meet her father, she was absolutely certain that doing so with pregnancy rumours flying around would be enough to induce some kind of heart attack in Dave, and thus might be very much worth it. 

John took her hand then, breaking her train of thought, and together they stepped inside, Clara stalking determinedly through the demonstration rooms and flats until they reached the storage section, at which point she focused all of her attention on a nearby Kallax storage system and John took a visible two steps backwards. 

“What was that for?” she asked, side-eyeing him as she squinted at the shelves, trying to work out whether her planned configuration would work adequately in a nursery. 

“What was _what_ for?”

“The step back.”

“You get scary when you go into IKEA mode.”

“I do not.” 

“You do so. Last night, you swore at me when I pointed out that a newborn won’t need a Billy bookcase.” 

“He will so,” Clara scowled at the white-painted unit. “Eventually. I’m forward-planning. Besides, Bonnie can display photos on it. You know it’s a good idea.” 

“If you say so.” 

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” Clara turned her attention fully to him, finding him looking somewhat apprehensive and having tucked a pencil behind his ear, the silliness of which made her irritation fade. “God, you’re cute.” 

“Thank you,” he seemed pleased by the compliment — or possibly the successful avoidance of a full-scale row — and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her hair and shyly saying: “I liked the config you came up with last night. I think that would work best.” 

“Excellent. Me too. Write down the code, please.”

John retrieved a piece of scrap paper from his pocket and obediently did so, and Clara nodded in satisfaction before continuing on around the shop, heading with determination towards the children’s section. As she bent down to examine a cot, a nearby shopper did a double take before tapping Clara on the shoulder and adopting a gushing tone that only served to put Clara on the defensive. 

“Oh, my gosh! I just love your show, and you and your…” the woman looked around and clocked John, who gave a half-sarcastic, half-sincere little wave, “…partner are so lovely. Is this forward-planning? Or do you have some news that you haven’t shared with us all yet?”

“We do have some really great news, yeah,” Clara enthused, forcing herself to grin and watching the woman’s eyes widen in shock. “My cousin is pregnant, and I’m designing her nursery.” 

The woman’s face fell. “Oh,” she said dully, losing interest instantly, but still attempting to be polite. “Well, congratulations to her.” She shoved a set of cot bedding into her trolley and wandered off without a backwards glance, as Clara rolled her eyes and moved over to the next cot.

“That was _naughty._ ” 

“Yeah, well,” Clara said without looking up, running a hand over the white-painted frame, trying to ascertain whether she liked this cot, and thus whether Bonnie would. “She should learn to mind her own business.” 

“Salient point. This one?” 

“Mm?” Clara asked, looking up. “Oh, the cot. Yeah, this one. Aisle 23, Location 5.” 

“Excellent.” 

Somewhere between noting down the required locations of necessary furniture, dealing with curious members of the public who wanted to know when Baby Smith — “Ha, as if! I’m sticking ‘Oswald’ in there somewhere,” Clara muttered to John under her breath — was due, and generally being distracted by cuddly toys, it took them a solid half hour to get downstairs to the home furnishings section, and then another hour to get through that. By the time the car was loaded with _almost_ too many flat-packs to be comfortable, Clara was starving, and she looked up at John with a pout. 

“Can we get some Swedish meatballs before we go to Homebase for paint?” she asked pleadingly, trying to look endearing. “I might faint otherwise, and that would be really bad for your public image.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesced, grabbing his wallet, and Clara grinned, following him back into the store and towards the restaurant, slipping her arm around his waist as they walked. “How much do you feel like you can eat?” 

“A large portion,” Clara adopted an innocent expression as she grabbed two trays and joined the queue. “Because, you know, I’m eating for two now.” 

“Sure you are,” John chuckled, stooping to kiss her cheek fondly. “Behave.” 

“Make me.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” 

“Well-” Clara was interrupted by her phone ringing, and pulled it out of her pocket to check the display before groaning loudly. “Oh, bollocks. It’s Dad. I’d better get this, you know what he’s like.”

She ducked under the queue barriers with a swooping sense of apprehension, heading towards the edge of the restaurant before clicking “accept.” 

“Hey, Dad,” she said, as warmly as she was able. “What’s up?” 

“Linda just saw online that you’re in IKEA,” Dave said bluntly, without any form of greeting or pleasantry. 

“Lovely to hear from you, too, Dad. I’m doing just fine, thanks for asking. How on earth is that online already?”

“Someone put it on Twitter.” 

“You have Twitter now? You can barely work an iPhone, how do you have-” 

“Don’t be rude. _I_ don’t, Linda does.”

“Linda has Twitter?!” Clara stifled a groan of horror. “Dear god.” 

“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me. Yes, she does. Is that a problem?”

“No,” she lied, making a mental note to mind what she tweeted. “But why is she stalking me on there?” 

“Because it’s the only way we find things out about you, like the fact _you’re apparently pregnant_!”

“Oh, my god,” Clara really _did_ groan then, putting her head in her free hand. “Dad, really? You really think I wouldn’t tell you something like that?” 

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me! Clara, like it wasn’t bad enough that you’re dating someone _who is the same age as me,_ now you’re having his kid?!” 

“Again: why wouldn’t I just call you and tell you that?” 

“Because you know my feelings on the matter!” 

“Dad, I’m not…” 

“Clara, this is just… I’ve tried to be understanding, and I know you’re thirty and you can make your own decisions, but really?” 

“Dad!” Clara all but shouted, attracting a few curious looks from nearby patrons. “I’m not pregnant, Jesus Christ, can you please just calm down and actually listen to me for once?” 

“Well, what were you doing looking at nursery furniture?” 

“Dad, it’s for Bonnie. OK? I’m doing her nursery for her, because she asked me to. I’m definitely not pregnant. Like, really, definitely not. I have an IUD.” 

“OK, so, firstly: thank _god_. Secondly: I don’t need to know about your… lady things.” 

“Excuse me, you seemed to want to know about my uterus when you thought it contained a baby.” 

“That is totally not the point, Clara.” 

“I gotta go, Dad, John is getting us meatballs, and then I might just whip my IUD out so we can christen a bed in IKEA and get arrested for public indecency. Maybe we could give any resulting kids appropriate Swedish names, how would you feel about a grandchild named ‘Hemnes’?” 

“You’re too bloody cheeky,” Dave snapped. “Just… be careful, alright? That man is bad news, and I don’t want anything to-” 

“You’ve mentioned, Dad. At least eight hundred times. And like you said, I’m an adult now and I can make my own choices in life. I choose John. Bye.” 

Clara hung up before her father could say anything else, crossing the restaurant back to John, who was by now bearing two enormous plates of meatballs and chips, a bowl of salad as a tokenistic nod to being healthy, and two slices of Daim cheesecake. 

“How’d that go?” he asked, looking sympathetic and handing her a tray. “On a scale of one to-” 

“Shite,” Clara groaned, grabbing a chip and shoving it in her mouth before continuing with her mouth full: “He asked if I was pregnant. And apparently Linda has a Twitter account so she can keep tabs on me.” 

“Bloody hell,” John raised his eyebrows, grabbing cutlery before guiding Clara towards a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. “That’s… intense.” 

“He also reaffirmed how much he hates the idea of us dating.” 

“It’s not an _idea_. We’re actually doing this. You know, for real. In the real world.” 

“You know what I mean,” Clara rolled her eyes. “It’s just… such a load of shit. He’s not even met you and he’s just decided that he hates you based on your age.”

“I mean,” John sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but if I had a daughter and she brought home someone the same age as me, I think I’d be pretty upset, too.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, yeah,” John shrugged. “I can see his point, but I’d still like to meet him sometime. You know, so I can convince him I’m not the monster he seems to think I am, and reassure him that I really am totally head over heels for you.” 

“I love you, and that should count for something,” Clara stabbed a meatball with her fork. “But apparently not.” 

John hesitated for a moment, chewing on a chip thoughtfully. “What… what did he think of Danny? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“He loved Danny,” Clara confessed, looking down at her plate and pushing the meatball through what appeared to be a small ocean of gravy. “Was fully gunning for us to get married and settle down and have 2.4 children, the works. Thought Danny was god’s gift to mankind.” 

“So, he’s comparing me to that,” John said. “That’s understandable. I don’t have a solid, respectable profession like being a teacher. I wasn’t in the army. Those are two black marks against my name. Compounded by the very public breakdown I had after the accident, I can see why he might not be my bigger fan.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Not finished. I’m crazy about you, and I will do my best to support you, and that should count for something.” 

“Yes,” Clara said miserably. “It should.” 

“So, once we’ve done the nursery and once he’s got over the shock of thinking that his cherished only daughter is pregnant, we can go and pay them a visit, and I can attempt to win him over.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course,” John smiled, reaching over and giving her hand a quick squeeze. “He’s your dad, I want him to like me. Or at least not hate me. That would be a really good start.” 

“You really don’t have to…” Clara sighed, looking up at John and attempting to look nonplussed by the situation. “It doesn’t bother me that much.” 

“Yes, it does, or you wouldn’t be pushing those meatballs around your plate like that,” John leaned forward and tipped her a wink. “Come on now, you are eating for two after all…” 

Clara laughed, her mood lightening just a fraction. “God, you’re a bad influence.” 

“Just think of all the cute baby things you can buy Elijah if we tell the _Sun_ all about your supposed pregnancy woes.”

“That is an excellent point.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara introduces John to her dad and Linda.

John adjusted his shirt collar for what seemed like the hundredth time, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror and trying not to look as panicked as he felt. Or, at least, he sincerely hoped he didn’t look as panicked as he felt, because he was pretty damn panicked, and the last thing his tiny, prone-to-fits-of-nervous-hysteria girlfriend needed was him hyperventilating outside her dad’s house. 

“Chill,” Clara said, without much conviction, from her position in the passenger seat. He looked over at her with a nervous, wan smile that he knew was entirely unconvincing. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“Remind me what happened the last time you saw your dad?” he asked before he could stop himself, instantly hating himself for the words as her face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

She looked abruptly calm, and John knew her well enough to know that was dangerous. “I kicked over the coffee table and told Linda to go to hell, but that will not be happening this time.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, reaching over and taking her hand, adopting a serious expression before tipping her a wink. “Because those shoes don’t look strong enough to kick anything, and taking you to hospital because you broke your foot on a coffee table is going to be embarrassing for us both.” 

“I’m sure,” she poked her tongue out at him childishly, and he laughed. “We should probably stop lurking in the car now, Linda is definitely twitching the curtains and bitching about our cowardice to Dad.” 

“I doubt that very much.” 

“You haven’t met Linda,” Clara muttered, getting out the car with tangible apprehension. “She is _so_ doing that.”

John climbed out the driver’s side and placed his arm around Clara’s waist, pressing a quick kiss to her hair to reassure them both, before having a realisation: “Am I OK to do that in front of your dad?” he asked, worried such displays might be unacceptable, or crossing a line. “You know, be affectionate?” 

She frowned, looking both pleased by the thoughtfulness of the question and yet stricken about the prospect of having their relationship placed under such scrutiny. “I guess?” she concluded, with a small shrug of uncertainty. “Maybe not too much, and not to start with. Wait until he’s offered us tea or something, because that means he’s relaxed enough to not thump you.” 

“Wait, no one mentioned there might be thumping involved,” John joked, but he could feel himself getting panicked again. He desperately wanted Clara’s family to like him, and to approve of her relationship with him, but there was — he was aware — a very real prospect of them taking an instant dislike to him, or there being fundamental disagreements. Yet he hadn’t mentally prepared for the prospect of fisticuffs. “What if-” 

“I was kidding,” Clara leaned up to kiss his cheek. “He might be a bit weird about it, but just be yourself.” 

“That is _terrible_ advice.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m a crap person.”

“No, you’re not,” she said sternly, and he almost believed her. “There’s a reason I’m with you, remember? Now, stop stalling. I won’t let him hit you. Or say anything awful. And if Linda kicks off, we can leave. Alright?” 

“Fine,” he mumbled, feeling chastised, and letting Clara lead him up the garden path, standing somewhat awkwardly by her side as she rang the neatly labelled doorbell. _Oswald Residence,_ it said it small, even handwriting that he recognised as hers, and, somehow, that small familiarity reassured him a modicum, although his heart was still pounding and his mouth still felt dry and this was a bad idea, this was a _resoundingly terrible_ idea, and- 

The door swung open, revealing an equally apprehensive-looking bloke with a patchy beard, who sized John up with a practiced eye before anyone had even had the chance to speak. 

“Dad!” Clara said brightly, and John recognised the forced cheerfulness in her tone. “Lovely to see you. This is John. John, this is my dad, David.” 

“Dave is fine,” Clara’s father said at once, sticking out his hand with visible reluctance. “Nice to finally meet you. Clara’s been going on about you non-stop for weeks.” 

“I have not,” she said at once, her cheeks tinged a delicate shade of pink, as John shook Dave’s hand politely. “Have I?”

Dave chuckled then, and John hoped for half a minute that some of the tension might dissipate. “Not any more so than you did about Danny.” 

Clara froze at once, her whole body locking up as she stared at her father with evident horror. “Dad,” she said after half a beat of terse silence. “Can we not?” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking not at all sorry. “Come on in.” 

Clara stepped over the threshold first, turning and shooting John an apologetic look, but John only shrugged by way of response. Dave had liked Danny — that much John had already known — so the remark shouldn’t have come as a shock, yet somehow it still stung. Somehow, the reminder that he wasn’t the first man in Clara’s life, while something he logically knew, still stirred something oddly possessive in him. When it was just the two of them together, Danny was an abstract concept; a part of a past that was never really discussed, nor put into words, save for the odd remark. Confronted with someone who had known Danny well, and been enthusiastic about his prospects with Clara… John felt an odd sense of unease. 

Following Clara on autopilot, he removed his shoes and then headed into a small, chintzy-looking lounge that appeared to have changed very little since the late 1990s. A blonde, somewhat sour-looking woman he supposed was Linda bared her teeth at him in what might have been a smile, and he clutched at Clara’s hand, feeling a sudden resurgence of his earlier panic. 

“This is Linda,” Clara said, with as much enforced jollity as he knew she could muster. “Linda, this is John.”

“Lovely to meet you, John,” Linda looked pleasantly surprised. “I must say, you’re much more handsome in person than you are in photos.” 

“Thank you,” he stammered, a little embarrassed by the compliment. “I think.”

Clara turned away from her stepmother, rolling her eyes so that only he could see, before sinking down on a particularly hideously patterned sofa, pulling John down beside her. “How have you-” she began, but she was cut off by Dave, who was leaning on the fireplace and scowling at John with the kind of vitriol Clara had only previously witnessed from Missy. 

“Look,” Dave said bluntly, holding up his hands in the universal gesture for what John recognised as, ‘I don’t want to start anything, but…’ “I’m going to level with you, John, you’re not the kind of man I’d’ve chosen for my daughter.” 

“Dad!” 

“The age thing is a factor, I’ll be honest, and I’m not happy about… well, about all that mess, you know, years back, with the partying and the drinking-”

“I don’t drink anymore,” John said as politely as he could manage, hating that he was having to discuss this. “I attend AA meetings once a week, with Clara’s support, and I’m doing well.” 

“Really? Because you damn nearly broke her at Easter.” 

“And I regret that, and I have apologised to her countless times.” 

“Apologies which I’ve accepted, Dad,” Clara reminded her father, offering him her best teacher scowl. “So, can we change the subject?” 

Dave sighed, looking genuinely remorseful, but continuing nonetheless: “I’m not going to lie to you, Clara, I always really liked Danny. He was a lovely guy, and he looked after you, and he worshipped the ground you walked on.” 

“He’s also dead, though,” Clara noted bluntly, her expression somewhere between petulant and heartbroken in a way that made John’s heart ache. “Which kind of puts an impediment on a relationship.” 

“Love, with the greatest of respect… John’s my age.”

“John is also sat next to me,” Clara said in a saccharine tone. “So, watch it.” 

“No, I know what your dad’s saying,” John interjected, before Dave could carry on. “He’s saying that my liver is probably shot to hell, and I don’t have long left, so I shouldn’t get in too deep with you and break your heart in the same way Danny did. You know, by dying prematurely.”

“John…” she began, but he didn’t let her finish. 

“And do you know what, Dave, you’re right. You’re right that, god knows, my own idiocy has probably limited the time I’ve got, and lord knows, I’m not exactly a pinnacle of health these days. But I love your daughter, and if that counts for anything at all then I want you to know that even if my days are numbered then I want to make her as happy as I can in that time.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you both?” Clara snapped, getting to her feet and looking between the two men with a face like thunder. “Dear god, you _know_ this is a sensitive topic and yet you still both think this is a totally acceptable conversation to be having? I don’t want to think about John dying! I don’t want to be reminded of Danny either, because, god knows, it’s crap enough losing your other half and having that hanging over you and I want to try and move on, the way he’d have wanted, and John makes me happy. John makes me feel like life is actually worth living again, Dad, so I don’t need either of you going on and on about imminent death or acting like I’m damn well made of glass! I know what I’m getting into. I know and I understand that the time we have together might be cut short. That doesn’t bloody mean I need reminding of it! More to the point, I don’t need to spend the time we have got sitting around in shitty Blackpool having to justify and defend the person I’m choosing to spend the rest of my life with, because you aren’t the goddamn Spanish Inquisition, and it’s 2017, and I shouldn’t have to argue for the right to love who I love!” 

“Clara…” both men started, but she only shook her head and turned on her heel, all but running into the hall, and they heard the front door slam behind her. 

To John’s considerable surprise, Linda affixed first Dave and then him with a reproachful look. “I hope you’re both happy,” she told them tartly, before getting up and following after Clara, and John could only blink at Dave in stupefaction. 

“Well,” Dave mumbled, eyebrows raised. “That’s a first.” 

Just like that, the both of them were laughing, and then Dave approached John with one hand held out, hovering in anticipation of a reconciliatory handshake. “I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely, as John took the proffered hand and shook it warily. “Can we start again?” 

John hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he acquiesced, casting his gaze towards the hallway. “For Clara’s sake.”

 

* * *

 

Outside, Clara was perched on the low garden wall, fighting back tears for the simple sake of not wishing to lose her composure in public. Well, semi-public. In view of the neighbours who’d known her since she was young, if nothing else. She had appearances to uphold. 

She was almost succeeding at doing so when Linda plonked herself down on the wall beside her, offering her a somewhat crumpled handkerchief in an uncharacteristically kind gesture.

“Thanks,” Clara muttered, taking it and dabbing at her eyes lest any tears had escaped. “Sorry.” 

“It’s OK,” her stepmother said, reassuringly. “I ah… I’m sorry, too.” 

“What for?” Clara fought the urge to laugh bitchily, instead side-eyeing the woman with suspicion. 

“Just…” Linda sighed, looking down at the pavement and scuffing her slippers over the cracked tarmac. “I love him, you know.” 

“Who?” 

“Your father,” Linda did not, for once, roll her eyes. “I know that might surprise you, but I do.” 

“Why would that surprise me?” 

“Because you seem to think I’m in this for… oh, I don’t know. _Something._ But the truth is I love him, and I know for a fact he doesn’t love me; not in the way he loved your mum.” 

“Linda…” Clara felt a staggering sense of awkwardness, and she knew she was gawking at Linda, but somehow found herself not caring. “I don’t understand.”

“What you said about having Danny hanging over you… and about not knowing how long you’ve got. I think the truth is Ellie’s always been there, Clara. First in you — in your eyes, and your temper, and in your memories, of course — and then just… it’s _her_ house. Your dad was her husband before he was mine, and I don’t think the spell of her ever really lifted. And I never know how long I’ve got before he realises he doesn’t want me, he wants to mourn in peace, and just…” Linda sighed. “It’s been eleven years and I’m still terrified that he’s going to wake up one day and realise that and leave.”

“I’m sure he…” 

“Clara, just… I’m sorry for the things I’ve done, and the things I’ve said. I’m sorry for trying to rewrite the past and for spurning you and just being an all-round shitty person.” 

“That’s… alright,” Clara said after a moment, realising she needed to let go of this to move forward. “I’m sorry for being an inflammatory teenager, then just a horrible adult, and for calling you names. And for generally being a bitch.” 

Linda chuckled, reaching over and taking her hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Honestly, it’s understandable.” 

“But not excusable.” 

“Oh, no,” Linda grinned mischievously. “But still. You know, in the meantime, we should go back inside and start making amends. John seems nice, you know? I’m sure your dad will come ’round to the idea of the two of you being together. Slowly.” 

“Really?” 

“John makes you happy,” Linda said, pragmatically. “And that, Clara, is what counts.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving home from Blackpool means it's back to Coal Hill for Clara, but she's more worried about the fact John is behaving strangely...

Returning from Blackpool, Clara felt an odd sense of peace as she ruminated on the meeting between her family and John. Once her dad’s feelings — and John’s — had seen the light of day and understandings had been reached, a pleasant Sunday had been had by all involved, and by the end of the day she had even seen her father and John cracking jokes, sharing a cup of tea and stories about their misspent youths, John’s radio career, and their shared taste in obscure rock bands. She said a small prayer of gratitude for that fact her father hadn’t seen fit to bring out any of her dire school photos, and, as they left her hometown, she felt a glimmer of hope for the future, even if John was a touch quiet on the drive back to London. She chalked it up to exhaustion and dozed off with her head against the window, and the next thing she was aware of was being carried up to her flat in John’s arms, too sleepy to argue or offer a witty comment on his unanticipated strength. As she curled up in bed and yawned, she was only vaguely aware of being alone, but the last thing she remembered before slipping into a luxuriously deep sleep was a warm feeling of relief and contentment, allaying her anxieties and soothing her frantic mind.

While the summer had been blissful, September meant only one thing. School began, as it always did, early on a cool Monday morning for teachers, and she dragged herself to Coal Hill with a wide, forced smile that did little to conceal her fatigue, but somehow, she found she didn’t fully care. It was autumn — if only barely — and, while it was still too warm to contemplate scarves and numerous layers and clothes in warm shades of burnt orange, she could feel her excitement for the impending season building as she sat at her desk, arranging her stationery and wondering about the incoming class of Year Sevens she would get to meet the following day. September was dull, certainly, but October would bring Halloween and the potential to invite John to a fancy dress party; November would involve Bonfire Night, full of sticky sweets and smoke and scattered colours. And then it would be December, and Christmas; Christmas, that wonderful, magical time of year that brought people together and tinged everything around it with hope. She smiled to herself at the thought, particularly buoyed with the remembrance that soon Bonnie’s little boy would make an appearance to the world, and thus her Christmas Day this year would be three people merrier: John, Bonnie, and little Elijah. 

Brought back to the present with a bump, at lunch, Clara shared sandwiches with the rest of the English Department on the playground — for once mercifully devoid of over-enthusiastic Year Tens with footballs — laughing and exchanging stories of the summer holidays, and, while Clara wouldn’t admit it aloud, she privately considered Tuscany with John to be the most exciting trip, compared to those of her peers. Florida sounded hot, sure, but humid and busy, and Australia was never really to her taste. No, Tuscany with the man she loved? That was the kind of holiday she could get on board with, and she beamed as she recounted their adventures in the city of Florence; tales of hidden churches and cobbled streets and stray cats. 

Yet, all too soon, as ever when teachers assemble, the talk turned to syllabuses and lesson plans and cursing the government, cursing Justine bloody Greening and her educational reforms, cursing the minimised time they could spend with students and the sheer volume of marking they were expected to undertake. Clara joined in with gusto, and it wasn’t long before someone else had got the BBC News app up on their phone and they were combing through the Breaking News section with the intent of damning the Tories in increasingly lurid language, giggling like the students they so often reproached. 

It was all very… normal. 

So very normal that Clara become thoroughly entranced by the sheer _normalcy_ of the situation and forgot, for a moment, her other commitments, arriving at the studios that evening just a _fraction_ late. Not late enough to qualify a formal warning, and certainly not late enough to be late for the actual show, but still late enough to earn a reprieve from Amy, and be sent for apology coffees from the canteen, which she set down ten minutes later — the irony was not lost on her — on a desk with a box of muffins that Bill had bunged at her with an entirely wicked grin, explaining they’d gone out of date that day and were therefore, _technically,_ past their best before dates. Not that the team needed to know that, or cared, because free food was free food.

“Hey,” Clara said brightly, flinging herself into her chair and then sipping her coffee as she beamed at John. “Good day?” 

He affixed her with a long, unreadable look then reached for his coffee, putting his headphones on and turning away from her in a way that stung at her pride a little in a way that was entirely uncomfortable, and bothered her more than it rightfully should. One glance at Amy’s perplexed glare was enough to reassure her that she was not being unreasonable, however, and while she hadn’t the energy to argue with John or seek an explanation at present, she filed the oddity away under a mental heading of _Weird Boyfriend Things,_ and resolved to ask him about it at a later point. Ideally, when he’d consumed some coffee, which seemed to assist his brain in functioning in a roughly normal sort of way. 

The mental heading was, if she was honest, leading up a rather impressive list at present. There was the fact he hadn’t slept at her place the night before, and then the lack of a good morning text and — she cast her mind back to earlier — in fact, the lack of any texts from him at all that day. 

“Hey,” she said again, more quietly this time, scooting her chair over to where he was sat and looking over at a website he had open — some page she didn’t recognise about bands she’d dimly heard of. When he didn’t reply, she nudged her knee gently against his, but he only made a noise low in his throat that sounded — if she didn’t know better — almost like a growl, and yanked his headphones down to his neck. That was a start, she supposed. At least he was listening. “Everything OK?” 

“Everything’s fine,” he muttered evasively. “Just tired.” 

“No, you’re not, or you’d have stayed at mine last night.” 

“I am,” he rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed by her statement. “OK?” 

“But…” 

“Later.” 

“How much later?” she probed, feeling worry beginning to eat away at her stomach. “Because this is worrying me.” 

“Later as in after the show.” 

“Fine,” she mumbled, rolling her chair away from him and taking up her usual seat at their desk. “After the show it is, then.” 

“Can you two look slightly less mopey?” Amy called, and Clara tried her best to smile and ignore the nagging sense of unease in her chest. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong with John, and she had the sneaking suspicion that she knew what it was.

 

* * *

 

“So,” she began uncertainly, after Amy and Andrew and the rest of their team had dispersed from the studio and it was just the two of them left. She took a deep breath, trying to hide the tremor in her voice as she continued: “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” 

There was a long, heavy silence, and she tried to meet John’s gaze, needing to see his eyes to understand what he was thinking, but he only shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking around at his desk and his computer and anywhere but at her. That was never a good sign. That only ever meant one thing, and she inwardly resigned herself to what was about to ensue, hating the thought of it but knowing it was inevitable.

“John?” she asked, keeping her tone low and gentle. “Please.”

“I just…” he sighed, putting his head in his hands and mumbling into them: “Your dad kind of had a point, you know? I’m old, and I’m in bad shape. And I don’t want to break your heart by dying on you and leaving you tragically widowed at like, forty-five or something.”

“You’re not going to break my heart, John.” 

“I’m going to die, though.” 

She tensed up instinctively at the words, panic flooding her system at the casual way he had enunciated the news of his own impending mortality. He seemed so abundantly certain that for a moment she was frozen, unable to ask what empirical data he was drawing upon to reach this conclusion, until her muscles unlocked themselves and her mouth lurched into life, and she realised with shame that she was crying as she spoke, her breath coming in short pants and robbing her of the ability to ask anything more than the one crucial thing she needed to know. 

“When?’ 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged, and she felt her chest constrict painfully as she realised he was not talking within a definitive scale, but rather in the abstractly hypothetical. “Soon, I should think. I’ve fucked my liver, we both know that.”

“We don’t,” she denied at once, hating the very suggestion. “Do _you_ even know that? Have you seen a hepatologist about it?” 

“Ach, I don’t need to see some fancy pants doctor to know that my days are numbered.” 

“Stop saying that!” 

“Why?” 

“You sound so damn casual and I can’t stand it! Stop talking like this is set in bloody stone, John! If your health isn’t good, we can work on that. We can join a gym and be that sickening couple in matching Lycra, and start consuming copious amounts of water and vitamins and fruit. We can do whatever is damn well necessary, because I’m not giving up on you, or us, or this!” 

“Clara, I can’t do that to you,” he said quietly, and Clara sighed. Clenching her fists under the desk and finding her voice, she shook her head furiously, aghast at the very notion. She couldn’t allow him to think like this. _Wouldn’t_ allow it, but John was continuing morosely: “I mean, we all have to face death eventually, be it ours or someone else’s. I don’t want you to have to face mine.” 

“I’m not ready yet. I don’t want to think about giving up on us, and I don’t want to think about… about _that._ Not yet.” 

“I don’t want to inflict that kind of suffering on you, Clara. I refuse.” 

“You wouldn’t be inflicting anything on me! How would leaving me and giving up on us spare me from anything? Because then you’d be suffering alone, and, worse still, you’d be _dying_ alone, and god knows the thought of that would break me far more than your death ever could.” 

“I wouldn’t be alone,” he shuffled uncomfortably. “I’d have Missy.” 

“Oh, yeah, because she’d be such a source of comfort.”

“Clara, please. I don’t want to burden you. I can’t do that; I can’t drag you down with hospital appointments and medication and-” 

“Stop speaking in the bloody hypothetical, John! You don’t know that any of this will happen, and we can damn well do something to make sure it doesn’t!” 

“Clara, I just want…” 

“No,” she said firmly. “No, OK? You don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this to me, John Smith. You’ve made yourself essential to me. You’ve given me something else to be. And you can’t do that and then leave. It’s not fair.” 

“Clara…” 

“No, John. I don’t care about your sense of being a liability or your bloody guilt. If you love me, in any way, that’s enough for me. Do you understand?” 

“Are you sure?” he looked up at her then, finally meeting her gaze, and she saw the looming uncertainty in his eyes — guilt and fear and compassion and, more than anything else, love. “Clara, are you honestly sure?” 

“Of course I am,” she assured him, reaching over and taking his hand. “Never been surer of anything in my life. I want to be with you, and that means… well, we haven’t got as far as wedding vows, obviously, but I’m here for you in sickness and in health. So, should that sickness come, we will deal with it. _I_ will deal with it; do you understand me?” 

He nodded curtly, squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry.” 

“Should be. Trying to dump me. Unacceptable.” 

“I wasn’t…” he slumped in his seat, looking mortified. “I don’t want to see you suffer.” 

“Could you just stop being a martyr? For five minutes?” 

“I’m not-” 

“Yes, you are. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, daft old man. I’m in this for the long run, and if people don’t like that… well, frankly, they can piss off. My dad included, although I do think you won him over in the end.” 

John smiled then, as had been her goal, and she edged closer to him, plonking herself down on his lap and winding her arms around his neck. “Hello,” he hummed, pressing his forehead against hers, and she realised for the first time just how fast he was breathing; just how worked up he’d been about the whole discussion. “My Clara.” 

“Always.” 

“Do you promise?” 

She nodded wordlessly, tucking her head into the space under his chin and nuzzling into him more comfortably. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, kissing her forehead tenderly. “And I’m sorry for wobbling.”

“You’re allowed to wobble.” 

“I know, but… just know it won’t happen again.”


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught up with Clara, John almost forgets an important date. Consumed by grief and guilt, he makes a decision that will change everything...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance.

When John made Clara that promise – when he assured her with absolute sincerity that he would not wobble again; not panic again; not fear for his future with her again – he meant it. He meant it with every fibre of his being as he vowed, then and there, not to give up on them, and to give their future a chance, without wasting his time panicking over a hypothetical decline in health that might not happen for decades. At least now, whatever happened, he was certain that Clara would be by his side. He headed home that night and breathed easy, content in the knowledge that she loved him, and thanking god for the thousandth time that he’d managed to find someone like her — someone who cared about him and who saw him as more than a name or a face or a means to an end, and who cherished him a holistic being. As he closed the front door behind him, he thanked god that he’d found happiness again, and that he’d been fortunate enough to find someone who loved him, and that his fractured, aching heart was being mended day by day by Clara’s smile and her laugh and her touch and myriad other things besides.

He was content, in that instant, until he passed the photograph at the foot of the stairs. It was one of the few remaining reminders of River on display in his home, because between his relationship with Clara and the natural easing of his grief with the passage of time, he’d found himself rearranging and redistributing photographs, investing in photo albums and moving frames around, but this one… this one he couldn’t fully bring himself to take down, not when it depicted such a cherished moment. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye, as he so often did now — an acknowledgement of his past, like a nod to a colleague in a hallway; a mark of respect, a recognition of existence — but this time he froze, and clutched at the bannister for fear of his legs giving way as crushing realisation swept over him and he felt his heart stop. He’d almost forgotten. He’d been so swept up in it all with Clara that he’d almost completely overlooked the date.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, trying to slow down his racing heart and quell the feeling of nausea that swept over him. “John Smith, you fool, you bloody…” 

He could almost feel River’s eyes on him, judging him, loathing him, and he bolted up the last of the stairs and headed into his — their? His? He no longer knew — room, flinging himself face down on the bed in an attempt to avoid the demons that sought to eviscerate him for his carelessness with the sanctity of memory. 

“I’m sorry,” he pleaded aloud, as though that might alleviate his guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t forget, I didn’t… I just…” 

He clenched his fists and placed them against his temples, silently screaming into his pillow, before reaching towards his nightstand and groping around in the semi-darkness until he found his diary. Opening it, he skimmed forward to Friday, reading the neat writing there and hating himself for not having bothered to check ahead. 

_September 8 th. Eight years._

Last year, he’d been a damn fool, chasing after Clara the way he had, but he’d still prepared weeks in advance. Steeled himself to visit her grave; ordered flowers; grieved appropriately. This year… this year he’d remembered barely four days ahead, and that wasn’t ample time to honour the woman who had been part of his life for more than two decades. That wasn’t enough time to respect all she’d done for him and meant to him; wasn’t enough time to mourn. And then there was the added complication of Clara, and the fact that remembering River was almost certainly disrespectful to her. He lowered his head and began to cry, conflicted in how to proceed as he clung to his diary and to his memories and a past and future that he failed to see the compatibility of. 

This week, he would strive to be respectful. This week, he would endeavour to honour her memory. Come what may.

 

* * *

 

Clara was not aware of John’s silent bedroom vow to a wife long-deceased. All she knew was that John — John, her bastion of support; her pillar of love and attentiveness and affection — was still, in her terms, _wobbling_. He’d made a promise, and yet he remained distracted. Still he was wary of her: barely touching her at work, keeping texts short and perfunctory, barely spending a moment with her outside of the studio. She didn’t understand what she had done — or not done — to evoke such a bizarre shift of behaviour in him, not after they had discussed it and he had sworn to her that he would commit, that he understood that she was committing, and that he loved her. She had hoped things would improve, but she was wrong.

Come Friday, she awoke at her usual time and checked her phone for a good morning text from John that she knew would not be there, yet she hoped would appear, nonetheless. Nothing. She sighed, opening Twitter as a way to kill five minutes before she got up, and it was then that she yelped and dropped the device like she’d been burned.

**@DailyMailCeleb:** _John Smith’s secret wife scandal_ _: radio presenter is revealed to have been wed to doomed archaeologist River Song for 22_ _YEARS. dailym.ai/1fgRSJS_

With her heart in her mouth, she clicked on the link. 

_EXCLUSIVE: Buried deep: Esteemed radio DJ John Smith revealed to have been married to tragic archaeologist River Song._

  * _Scottish presenter’s former producer reveals he was wed for 22 YEARS._
  * _The pair kept it secret from the press to avoid ‘special treatment.’_
  * _Song was killed at a dig in 2009 and became the centre of the infamous Strackman Lux trial._
  * _After Lux’s acquittal, Smith turned to drinking and partying to cope._
  * _The 59-year-old is now dating 30-year-old co-star Clara Oswald, who ‘is aware of his past.’_



“Missy…” Clara managed, hating the woman in that instant. “Missy, how could you…” 

Amy burst into her room, her eyes wide and panicked. “You’ve seen it?” 

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Clara swung her legs out of bed, knowing she had to get over to John’s before he could do anything he might regret. “Shit. Shit, how could she do this?” 

“Clara, did you… did you read the article? This is bad, and you need to hurry.” 

“No, just the summary. Why?” she felt her heart stop, wondering what could have filled Amy with such tangible fear. “What is it?”

“It’s the anniversary _today_. It’s the anniversary of her death.” 

“Shit,” Clara swore, stripping off without ceremony and yanking on un-matching underwear, a pair of jeans and a shirt. “Can you call the school and tell them that a personal crisis has arisen and I will be back on Monday morning?” 

“’Course.” 

Clara nodded by way of thanks, grabbing her handbag and stopping to give Amy a grateful hug. “I’ll do what I can.” 

“Look after him.” 

“I will.” 

She all but ran to the Tube station, fumbling with her Oyster card and then almost falling down the escalator in her haste. She got some filthy looks from commuters as she shoved through the crowds, but she didn’t care. She needed to get to John, and she needed to get to John _now_. Nothing else mattered. For the entirety of the journey to his place, she weighed over the worst-case scenarios in her mind, finally understanding his curiously aloof behaviour and his distance from her and his long silences, and realising she was an idiot for not considering what might be troubling him.

As she sped-walked towards his house, she cursed herself over and over for not having asked him what was wrong, for not having pressed for an answer, and for not having ever had the sense to note the date of River’s death. As she stumbled over a kerb and swore under her breath, her train of thought turned to Missy and she cursed herself again for not having predicted the woman’s vindictive, bitter actions; this was a revenge plan long considered, of that there was no doubt. 

Arriving at John’s, Clara hammered on the door as loudly as she was able, hoping against hope that John would answer. When he didn’t, and when she’d knocked again with a similar lack of response, she reached under the doormat for the spare key and let herself in, feeling her panic clawing its way up her throat and praying to god that she wasn’t about to find him dead, or halfway dead, or drunk. 

“John?” she called as she stepped over the threshold, jogging through the rooms and trying to remember how to breathe. “John? It’s me, where-” 

She entered the kitchen and froze, taking in the sight of John, leaning against a counter and holding a bottle of cheap-looking vodka that mercifully appeared to still be unopened. John was eyeing it hungrily, and she knew she had to talk to him, to stop him from cracking under pressure and doing the one thing they both knew he shouldn’t. 

“Hey,” she said in the softest, most reassuring tone she could manage. “John, that’s really not a good idea, you know?” 

“No, it’s a great idea,” he mumbled, his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped. “A really great idea.” 

“No, it’s not,” she said, taking a step towards him. “You don’t want to do this, John. I know what Missy did was fucking awful, and I know she’s betrayed you, but we can get through this. Together.” 

“I don’t want to get through this,” he looked up at her then, and his expression was full of pain. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” 

“Do what?” she asked, not understanding. “Fame?” 

“Life.” 

“John, you’re being silly…” 

“And I don’t want to do _us_ anymore,” he said in a rush.   

Clara felt her world stop; the entire universe constricting down to her and John as he looked her in the eyes and she saw the finality laid bare there. She shook her head, refusing to believe he’d just said what he had, and affixing a wide smile on her face in an attempt to hide the fact that she was shaking like a leaf. “What?” she asked, her tone _too_ bright and _too_ happy. “What do you mean? Don’t be stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m an old man, Clara. I’m an old, fucked-up man, who can never be what you deserve, and the press will always hate us. It doesn’t matter what we do — it doesn’t matter if I save your damn life; it doesn’t matter if I marry you; it doesn’t matter if we settle down and have three kids and a bloody dog — they’re still going to hate us. They’re still going to write shit about us. You don’t deserve that.” 

“For the love of god, John, when are you going to realise that what those damn rags say doesn’t matter to me?!”

“It matters to me!” he snapped, his face contorting into a mask of fury. “You can say it doesn’t matter to you, and who knows, maybe you mean it, but it matters to me. I can’t stand it, OK? I can’t fucking stand seeing you be ripped to pieces, and if the only way to stop that is by doing this, then I’m doing this. It’s over.” 

“John, I can weather this. We both can. They’ll get bored, and they’ll leave us alone, and we can be happy. We’ve _been_ happy, haven’t we? We _are_ happy,” Clara shook her head, feeling her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “John, please. Please don’t do this.” 

“Clara…” 

“You can’t do this to me, John, you can’t make me happy and then leave! You can’t just… you said you loved me, and if you love me you won’t do this!” 

“I’m not making you suffer a moment longer, Clara, and being with me is doing exactly that. You don’t need a man to be happy. You don’t need anyone to be happy but yourself, and we both know that.” 

“What about you?” Clara asked, still more concerned with his happiness than her own. “You weren’t happy until I was in your life. You weren’t happy after River-” 

“Don’t you say her name!” he snarled unexpectedly, the heat behind his words making her jump. “Don’t you dare say it!” 

Clara took a step back, holding her hands up submissively. “OK,” she stammered. “OK, I won’t.” 

“Just go, Clara. Just go, before this gets any harder than it needs to be.” 

She hovered for a moment, torn between wanting to plead with him, and wanting to leave before she lost her composure and broke down. John looked as though he were about to speak again, and unable to face any more of his anger, she darted forward, grabbed the bottle of vodka from his unprotesting hands in one final attempt to save him from self-destruction, and then turned and fled the house.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heartbroken Clara makes it home, and tries to come to terms with John's decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, please... you didn't really think it would all be lovely plain sailing, did you? ;)

Clara left John’s in a shell-shocked haze, still too numb to cry, and staggered towards the Tube in a way that she knew was attracting odd looks, but found she didn’t really care. Adrenaline was coursing through her system, and she could feel herself hyperventilating — she knew that was bad, and she should do something about it — but she was powerless to do anything other than keep putting one foot in front of another, knowing she needed to get home before she fell apart. She had a rule about falling apart in public, and she’d be damned if she was going to break that rule now. She wouldn’t give John the satisfaction of breaking her, and she wouldn’t give the public the satisfaction of seeing her weep. 

As she perched on an uncomfortable jump seat on the Overground, the hormones in her system began to wane, and she curled into herself, praying for the journey to be over so that she could be away from people, away from all of humanity, and so that she could catch her breath. It wasn’t until she reached Haggerston Station that she felt herself falling apart, and she stumbled off the train and away from the seething mass of people towards the familiar streets of Shoreditch, beginning to sob quietly to herself as she walked. How could John have done this? How could he tell her everything he had about himself, how could he invest so much in their relationship, only to turn around and end it like this? She loved him, and god knows that realisation had terrified her at the time, but she’d _allowed_ herself to love him and to fall in love with him, and now… now she was alone and she was broken and she was left with the crushing realisation that she’d been used. 

The thought brought her to an undignified crouch on the edge of the pavement, and she wrapped her arms around her knees as she fought for breath in the wake of her agonised, all-consuming sobs. She’d lost everything in the space of ten minutes. She’d lost John, and undoubtedly her job at Radio TARDIS, because why would he want to see her again after he’d dumped her so unceremoniously? She’d lost the man she loved, the job she loved, and her fledgling, fragile happiness. Everything she’d fought for in the wake of Danny’s death; everything she’d spent months telling herself she was allowed to indulge in. Love. Companionship. Sex. 

God, why had she been so stupid? Why had she been foolish enough to think that John was any different to any other man? He’d got what he wanted. He’d got to sleep with her, and when that got boring and he lost interest… well. This. He’d said he loved her, and she’d believed him. Like a trusting little lamb to the slaughter, she’d believed him. _Idiot. You dumb bloody idiot._  

She rocked back on her heels and plonked herself down on the edge of the pavement, needing to rest for a moment, and it was then she heard the dull _clink_ of something from her handbag and abruptly remembered the bottle of vodka she’d seized from John in a final, doomed act of love. _Idiot,_ she thought to herself again. _Kindness will kill you, and you damn well know it._

She mentally snarled at her own inner monologue, then groped around in her bag until she retrieved the bottle, squinting at the label that proclaimed it was Tesco’s Own Imperial Vodka, and rolling her eyes at the fact that John couldn’t even have stretched to a decent brand. Well. Fuck it, needs must, so she unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, shuddering at the taste and the way it burned her throat on the way down. It had been years since she’d done this, years since she’d drunk in public or drunk vodka neat, or both, but somehow the prospect of being blackout drunk currently seemed far more appealing than being conscious, so vodka and self-pity it was. 

A tiny, sensible part of her brain nagged her that it probably wasn’t a good idea to get that drunk in public, and despite her self-loathing she had to acquiesce that it had a point, so she got to her feet, took another gulp of vodka, and began to tramp back towards her flat, ignoring the dirty looks that people were shooting her and instead focusing on the overwhelming sorrow that seemed to tangibly settle over her shoulders. Well. The tangible sorrow, and the bottle of vodka. 

By the time she arrived home, she was almost unable to see straight, although she was unsure whether that was due to the alcohol or the tears. Fumbling with her key, she was somewhat relieved when Amy yanked the door open instead, and she all but fell over the threshold, landing on her knees on the hall carpet with the now-half-full bottle of spirits landing beside her, the cap coming off and the clear liquid beginning to seep into the carpet. 

“Jesus Christ, Oswald, what the fuck?” Amy asked, standing over her and looking somewhere between pitying and chastising. “Vodka? Vodka, at eleven in the morning? And more to the point… _Tesco_ vodka?”

“Was John’s,” Clara managed, after a moment of trying to recall how her mouth worked. “Took it off John.”

“Well, that was… nice of you.” 

“I know. Was stupidly fuckin’ nice of me cos he’s… he’s…” 

She didn’t need to say the words. From her face and her tears and the half-empty bottle of vodka, Amy knew, and Clara loved her for that. 

“Clara,” Amy dropped to her knees and pulled her into her arms, letting Clara cling to her. “Oh, my god. Clara. I’m so sorry.” 

“He just…” Clara began to sob, her whole body shaking as she finally allowed herself to fall apart. “He just… he told me… he couldn’t do it…” 

“He’s a bastard,” Amy said at once, stroking Clara’s hair soothingly. “He’s a pure fucking bastard, and I’ll kill him. OK?” 

“He said I was suffering with him because of the press, but I wasn’t suffering, Amy, I wasn’t, was I? I was happy, and I love him and he’s left me, he’s _left_ me, what am I supposed to do? How am I meant to move on?” 

“I don’t know,” Amy confessed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Oh, my darling. I don’t know. But you will.” 

“I was still getting over Danny and he had to… he had to do this and now… now I’m on my own again and I can’t do this, Amy, I can’t be alone.” 

“You aren’t alone, babe. I’m here, alright? I’m here, and you’re safe.” 

“How could he do this to me, Amy?” 

“He’s a man, my love. They do this.” 

“He said he loved me,” Clara wept, ignoring Amy’s comment. “He said he loved me and then he did this. How could he do that? How could he tell me he loved me if he knew he was going to leave me?” 

“Maybe he didn’t know.”

“He just… he just waited until I put out and then he had what he wanted and it wasn’t me, was it? No, it was never me. He can’t have ever wanted me, or he wouldn’t have done this. If he wanted me, he wouldn’t have ended… ended it.”

“He’s a Grade A bastard. I swear to you, Clara, I will just… god, I don’t even know what I’m going to do to him, but it will cause him a significant amount of pain.” 

“Please don’t hurt him,” Clara pleaded, the violence of Amy’s words finally registering with her. “Please. I love him, and you can’t… maybe he’ll realise? Maybe he’ll realise he does love me and wants to be with me…” 

“Yeah, or maybe in three months he’ll be bored, and horny, and he’ll call you up and invite you over and he’ll just take advantage of your feelings for the next however many godforsaken years so he can keep shagging you. That isn’t happening, Clara. Don’t be that doormat.” 

“I really thought he was the one,” Clara whispered, looking up at Amy and feeling her heart break for the thousandth time that hour. “I really thought he was.” 

“He’s a piece of shit, Clara,” Amy cupped her cheek, wiping her tears away with her thumb. “He doesn’t deserve you, he’s a damn fool.” 

“Amy…” Clara blinked at her flatmate, realising abruptly that they were both now undoubtedly out of a job. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Your job…” Clara sobbed, feeling a sudden surge of guilt. “The radio show…”

“Clara, it’s just a job. I can find another,” she frowned. “Did he fire you?” 

“No, but he isn’t going to want me there, is he? Oh yeah, that’d be such a great presenting team. The bastard who broke my heart, and gullible little fucking me.” 

“That’s OK,” Amy soothed, hugging Clara all the tighter. “It’s OK, I’ll phone Raz and say that we’re both going on unpaid leave, alright?”

“You can’t tell him about John, about what he did...” 

“I’m going to have to, sweetheart, or he’s not going to understand.”

“He’s going to hate me,” Clara said miserably. “He’s going to think I’m awful.” 

“No, he’s not,” Amy assured her. “Come on, you. Let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll put the kettle on and give him a call.”

“Don’t want a hot drink,” Clara wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “Want vodka.” 

“Vodka is a bad plan, Oswald,” Amy reached for the bottle before Clara could, getting up and holding it out of reach. “Sofa. Now. And if I catch you sucking spirits out of the carpet, then I’m staging a major intervention.” 

“Fine,” Clara mumbled, getting up on unsteady legs and heading towards the sofa, collapsing onto it gratefully and curling into a ball. She wanted to sleep, but she knew that her mind wouldn’t permit her the quiet she needed to do so, therefore all she could do was lie here, and wait for Amy to return with something warm and soothing in an attempt to alleviate the ache in her chest.

From the kitchen, she could hear muttered snatches of her flatmate’s conversation, and she closed her eyes, letting the familiar voice wash over her. 

_…John ended things…_

_…complete state…_

_…indefinite leave…_

_…unpaid is fine…_

_…it’s best I go too…_

_…thumping him…_

_…thank you…_

There was the quiet _click_ of the kettle boiling, and a few minutes later Amy appeared with two steaming mugs of tea. 

“Hey,” she said softly, handing Clara a cup. “All approved, OK? He said to take as long as you need, and if you really want to come back but not with John, there might be options available.” 

“I don’t…” Clara began, feeling her throat close up as she tried to say the words. “I don’t think I could.” 

“That’s alright,” Amy assured her. “He said there’s no rush to decide, and to tell you that he thinks John’s a complete wanker.” 

Clara half-laughed. “Good to know.” 

“I thought so.” 

Clara sipped at her drink, realising for the first time that her hands were shaking and resolving to get that under control. “What do I do, Amy?” she asked quietly. “How do I move on?” 

“In the same way you moved on from Danny."

“That was different,” Clara sighed, casting her mind back to the previous year, and her previous broken heart. “He was dead. He was gone. There was no chance of him coming back; there was no chance of me seeing his face anywhere or hearing his voice. He also didn’t keep appearing in the bloody tabloids.” 

“True,” Amy acquiesced with an easy shrug. “I don’t know, love. But I know that you absolutely can survive this. I know you can move on, and I know you’ll find someone who loves you, and cherishes you, and more to the point, deserves you.” 

“I don’t want someone else,” Clara confessed in a tremulous voice. “I want John, even if he’s a bastard.”

“I know,” Amy reached over and took her hand, and Clara felt pathetically grateful for the gesture. “I know, and I know that you hurt right now, but it’ll ease. It’ll pass. You can do this, Clara.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can, and I’ll be right here by your side every step of the way, with tea and Netflix and maybe wine when I trust you not to go overboard.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” Amy smiled warmly. “Now, are you the kind of upset that makes you hungry? Or the kind that makes you nauseous? Because I’m thinking we should watch something soothing, and eat pizza.” 

“Nauseous,” Clara mumbled. “And can the something be _Harry Potter_?” 

“Absolutely,” Amy murmured, scooting closer to Clara and wrapping an arm around her waist. “Whatever you need, babe.”


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to confront Missy about her actions, but what she has to say takes him by surprise.

John raised his fist and hammered on the black-lacquered wooden door in front of him, a copy of yesterday’s _Daily Mail_ clutched in his fist. He’d found it on the way across the city, abandoned in the doorway of a shop, and it seemed like a fitting piece of empirical proof with which he could confront Missy. 

Or, at least, with which he _planned_ to confront Missy, when she finally opened her damn front door, which he admittedly understood to be an unlikely event, but he was still willing to try and do things politely. Knocking counted as “polite.” All but smashing the door down was possibly regarded as _less_ polite, but he had a temper and Missy had a talent for ignoring him, so here he was. He pounded his fist against the wood a final time and then, faced with a total lack of activity or response from within the gloomy-looking townhouse, he reached into his pocket and drew out the spare key Missy had given him years before, praying she hadn’t had the sense to change the locks since then.

When the key turned and the door clicked open, he felt a swooping sense of victory as he stepped over the threshold, looking around the lurid purple hallway and inwardly shuddering at Missy’s choice of décor. It was over-the-top, as she was, and strangely ominous as he walked along the narrow corridor, which was lit oddly and infused with a strangely haunting air that unsettled John’s already fragile mood.  

“Missy?” he called as he approached the kitchen, and was rewarded with the sound of a cup shattering. Ah. She _had_ forgotten he had a key, and now she was alone in an empty house with the very man whose ire she had provoked. He smiled to himself then, a cold, unfeeling twist of the mouth as he stalked towards the room from which the sound originated, knowing that Missy would be scrabbling around to prepare herself and he would undoubtedly be met with her holding aloft a makeshift weapon. 

Leaning well back, he poked the half-open kitchen door with a fingertip, watching as it swung open to reveal his oldest friend, clad in a black dressing gown and wielding a knife with a slightly manic expression. A small puddle of dark liquid and shards of porcelain adorned the otherwise-pristine floor, and there was a half-eaten croissant lying forgotten on a red plate. 

“Hello, Missy,” he said wearily, crossing the threshold and holding up the rolled copy of the _Daily Mail_ as a makeshift shield. Missy lunged forwards and he parried with the newspaper, yanking it back and then extracting the knife from its newfound position in the centre of a photograph of Theresa May, before raising an eyebrow at his old friend. The defiance and fire slipped from her gaze and she leant back against her kitchen worktop, folding her arms and adopting a defensive sneer that he knew was an attempt to conceal her nervousness. 

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice odd and tight, and John raised an eyebrow. 

“Really?” he asked with incredulity. “ _Really_? You have _no idea_ why you’re lurking in this kitchen and ignoring me trying to kick your door in? More to the point, you have _no idea_ why you’re trying to stab me?”

Missy hesitated for half a beat, then nodded. 

“Bullshit,” he rolled his eyes. “You know full fucking well why I’m here.” He unfurled the now-butchered paper and held it up, gesturing to the water-stained photograph of him that adorned the corner of the front page. 

“Ah,” Missy’s eyes grew cold. “That.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she sneered, some of her former defiance creeping back as she raised her chin and tossed her hair. “I just talked to some lovely little thing in a café, I wasn’t to know it was going to make it to press, was I?” 

“Don’t try to play innocent,” he snapped. “On the anniversary? You know, I could forgive you doing this, but to do it on the damn _anniversary_ , that’s just… that’s just cruel.” 

“As cruel as you abandoning me for your pretty newer model?” Missy asked, and it took him a moment to realise that she meant Clara. “Trading me in, like-” 

“Missy, I didn’t… you know that wasn’t how things… we were never an item!” he managed, horrified by her perception of the matter. “You’re my friend, I didn’t… I didn’t ‘trade you in’ for anyone!” 

“For the love of god,” Missy shot back, visibly exasperated by his words. “I know we weren’t, John. Fuck, you have no idea how often I thought about it, but no, you were too blinded by the ghost of River to actually consider, you know, moving on and thinking about me in that way. But, no, that’s not my point. My point is that as soon as she appeared in your life, you fucked off out of mine. You weren’t interested in me except as a sounding board, and then once you had Clara on the show… oh, never mind my decisions or my input or my opinions on anything, not even the creative side of things. No, it was only ever about _her_. You only had eyes and ears for _her._ You’d have bent over bloody backwards for Clara, in a way that you never had for me, and dear god, you have no idea how much that hurt!” 

John was surprised to see tears of fury in her eyes, and he took a step back from her in shock. “I… Missy, you should’ve said…” 

“I tried, John! I tried, again and again and a-bloody-gain to say something, but you just kept brushing me off as jealous. And then you got with her and that was it. That was that.” 

“Missy, you…” John sighed, attempting to keep his temper. “Missy, you went ballistic when we told you.”

“John, I was terrified!” she confessed, and he was alarmed to find her voice wavering. “John, I was scared senseless of losing you and I got angry because I wanted you to fight for me! I wanted you to tell me it was alright, that you’d still be there for me, but you didn’t, and you weren’t. And yes, OK, maybe I behaved badly, but I just…” 

“You wanted attention.” 

“Yeah,” Missy chewed her lip, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Yeah, I did. But you chose her over me, and this was… this was the only way I could think to get your attention.” 

“Well, you’ve succeeded,” he said, feeling an abrupt sense of weariness settle over his shoulders. “You’ve got my attention. You’ve got me here.” 

“I have,” Missy smiled quickly then, a bright flash of mirth at odds with her otherwise defensive manner. “Without Clara.” 

“Very much without Clara,” John mumbled, willing his voice not to crack, and he was half-successful in his plaintive endeavour, as his words trailed off at the mention of her name. He hadn’t wanted to admit it; hadn’t wanted to face Missy’s inevitable glee that things had come to a crashing end and that she had been the architect of his relationship’s downfall, but he found it necessary to elucidate the reasons for his sour mood, and, while Missy was part of that, Clara made up the other side of the coin. Heads and tails; a Janus composed of the two women who had defined the past half-decade, spinning through time and space and weaving their magic around him. 

Only, one side of the coin was scratched out now; scored through and scribbled over and hacked at beyond recognition, and he had come here to do the same — or he had thought he had, and Missy had provided a very real knife with which to address his thoroughly metaphorical problem, but now he was unsure. What if scoring through this aspect of his life was too much? What if the coin — he cursed himself for the clumsy, yet continuing use of the metaphor — buckled under the stress of his angry attempts to remove the evidence of his past? 

“John?” Missy asked, her face contorting with something that might have been confusion or pity or exuberance or some mixture of all the above. His vision swam and he bent his head forwards, closing his eyes tightly and resolving not to cry; although his resolve to not mention Clara had waned, and he now placed little stock in his abilities to control his emotions. “John, what do you mean?” 

“It’s…” he couldn’t say it. It had been so easy to say it before; so easy to cast the words at Clara’s feet like an ugly, immovable wall between the two of them. It had been so easy to make that break; the divide between his happiness and his isolation. But now? Now the words stuck in his throat and made him want to choke. “We…” 

Missy understood, of course. Missy had always understood him, even when he didn’t want or need her to. “Oh, John,” she murmured, and her face softened. “I’m sorry.” 

Her words were improbably genuine, and he nodded an acknowledgement of thanks, preoccupied as he was with not crying. 

“You, or her?” 

He gesticulated vaguely to his own chest, unable to confess that he had been the one to sabotage his own future. 

“Because of the article?” 

He nodded again, then closed his eyes and shook his head. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “But other things, too. Just… just anxiety.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and the guilt in her words made him look up at her then. There were tears in her own eyes, and he realised that she was struggling to maintain her composure. “I never thought… can you not… work on things?” 

“I hurt her badly,” he swiped a hand over his eyes. “She wouldn’t have me back. Not after that.” 

“I never meant…” she turned away from him, leaning on the work surface and taking a shuddering breath. “I didn’t think you’d… can I fix it?” 

“What?” John asked, unsure whether he’d heard her correctly. Missy was never one to help with these things; quite the opposite. “You want to… fix it?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“And it’s taken this to make you realise that?” 

“I suppose it has,” Missy’s words were choked with emotion, and she turned to look at him with pleading eyes. “ _Can_ I fix things?” 

“I doubt it.” 

“But…” she argued. “There must be _something_?” 

“She wouldn’t listen to either of us.” 

“So, what do you do now?” 

“Try to move on, I suppose,” John tried to shrug casually, falling only somewhat short. “Shoulders back, chin up. Time to see what I’m made of.” 

“You’re not going to relapse?” 

Oh, the idea was tempting. The thought of allowing himself to become completely, blissfully unaware of the world around him was an appealing one, and drinking himself into an early grave had been, for a brief flicker of time the previous night, the most attractive plan he could think of as he strived to move on. But he had promised Clara, hadn’t he? All those months before, he had sworn to her that he would never touch a drop again, and he couldn’t break that vow for the sake of his own anger. He couldn’t allow Clara to have his death on her conscience, because everything about this separation was borne of love and of compassion for her, not of the desire to hurt her. That had been an unintentional side effect he could not — but should — have foreseen. 

“No,” he assured Missy honestly, realising the veracity of the words as he spoke them. “No, I’m not.” 

“Good,” she hovered for a moment, plainly uncertain of what to do. “Would you like a coffee?” 

“I don’t know,” John huffed, before teasing: “Will it end up on the floor?” 

“Only if you throw it at me. Are you likely to?” 

John considered the question. He was angry still, certainly. That wouldn’t change any time soon. But Missy’s actions had not been intended to have the consequences they did, and the hurt caused had been of his own making. There was no reason _not_ to stay and have coffee and a maudlin, distinctly Scottish catch-up of their lives since April. 

“No,” he said quietly after a moment’s thought. “No, I’m not.” 

“Six sugars?” 

“Six sugars.”


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara decides to go back to work for the sake of normalcy, nosy teenagers be damned. But will she be able to get any teaching done when everyone is so interested in her personal life?

Come Monday morning, Clara did not feel much like going to work at Coal Hill. She dreaded the inevitable stares of the kids; the intrusive questions that were sure to come; the worried looks of the other teachers as they took in her slightly spaced-out appearance. Nothing about work seemed appealing, yet she knew she had to go; the only alternative was sitting around the flat feeling sorry for herself, which seemed even less appealing than trying to teach English while heartbroken. So, when her alarm sounded, she allowed her body to carry her on autopilot: getting out of bed, making a cup of coffee, and putting her makeup on as she sipped listlessly at the hot drink. She stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror, acutely aware of how puffy and red her eyes looked, which, combined with the dark circles under her eyes, made her look haunted and ill. She supposed she _was_ , in a way.

Sighing, she reached for her concealer and started doing her best to make herself look presentable, and it was then that Amy appeared, sticking her head into Clara’s room and frowning quizzically. 

“What are you doing?” her flatmate asked, stepping inside and looking from Clara to her reflection to her coffee mug and then back again. “Why-” 

“I’ve got work, Amy,” Clara reminded her, attempting to stop her hand from shaking for long enough to do her eyeliner. She scowled at the offending extremity, resting her elbow on her dresser before proceeding. “Remember?” 

“Are you sure that it’s a good idea?” 

“No, but it’ll distract me,” Clara reasoned, finishing one eye and then lining the other, critically examining the result. “Which is what I need.” 

“What if the kids ask about things?” 

“Why would they?” she tried to sound upbeat and devil-may-care, but there was an odd, false positivity to her voice that betrayed her uncertainty. 

“Because you didn’t do your show on Friday or Saturday,” Amy stated. “Because you look — no offence — kind of like death.” 

“Thanks,” Clara said drily, shooting Amy a sour look before turning her attention to her mascara. “Glad to hear that. Really. It makes me feel _so_ much better.” 

“You know what I mean,” Amy sighed. “Clara, I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“Amy, it’s this or I sit around here with you, moping and not eating and generally being entirely unproductive. And, no offence, but after two days of sitting around here crying, I’m kind of sick of the place.” 

“I just don’t want you getting upset,” Amy confessed, chewing on her lip before continuing. “I know you. I know you hate crying in front of people; myself aside, obviously. I don’t want you to break down and then feel embarrassed and get angry and yourself and-” 

“I’m wearing waterproof makeup,” Clara gestured to her eyes, applying a quick layer of bright lipstick that was at odds with her mood, and then getting up and heading across to her wardrobe, perusing the somewhat limited array of possible outfits with steely determination. “And I’ll take Kleenex.” 

Amy hovered, obviously unsure whether to continue nagging or to let her flatmate go to work unimpeded. “Fine,” she said after a moment’s pause. “But promise you’ll call me if you need to.” 

“I will.” 

“And promise me I can beat up any students who try to ask nosy questions.”

“Amy!” Clara shot her a chiding look, choosing a cream blouse and scalloped-edge shorts. “Maybe.” 

“Good,” her friend smirked. “Want breakfast?”

“I’ll stop at Starbucks on the way,” Clara lied, her appetite still lacking. “Thanks, though.” 

“Sure,” Amy nodded, ducking out of the room before reappearing seconds later and adding: “I hope it goes OK.” 

“I hope so, too,” Clara tried to sound braver than she felt, and it seemed to work, as Amy offered her a warm smile and disappeared once more. Stripping out of her crumpled pyjamas and stepping into clean clothes felt like a blessing, and as Clara buttoned her blouse she tried to compose herself in anticipation of the day ahead. “It’ll be fine,” she murmured aloud. “I’ll be fine. Just a normal day. Just normal Miss Oswald.” 

She kept telling herself that as she grabbed her satchel and headed to the Underground, trying hard not to think about the one thing her brain kept automatically straying to. John. Was he awake yet? Was he struggling as much as she was? Or was he simply moving on with his life like she was barely a blip on the radar? The second thought nagged at her, as it had all weekend, and she could feel her mouth trembling as she clutched a handrail with sweaty hands and stared out the window at the dark, featureless Tube tunnel that flashed past outside. Amy was right; the kids would notice, and so would everyone else. She knew that, and she’d thought she was prepared for it, but now she wasn’t so sure. Now she was almost certain that going to work was a terrible idea, and she was tempted to just head home without showing her face, but a larger part of her was determined to do this and prove to the world that she could be strong. Strong Clara Oswald, putting a brave face on things no matter what. That was her modus operandi. 

Alighting at her stop and beginning to trudge the familiar route to Coal Hill, she was relieved to find that the still-early hour meant she was, for once, not travelling alongside her students. None except the most dedicated, at least, which accounted for the presence of Tanya Adeola, who gave her a cheery wave from across the road, then darted across a zebra crossing and fell into step beside her.

“Morning, miss,” she said brightly, and Clara mumbled a greeting by way of response. Tanya seemed undeterred. “Is it true?” 

“Is what true?” Clara asked, although she already had a sneaking suspicion what the girl was referring to. 

“What everyone is saying on Facebook. Did your boyfriend really have a wife?” 

A small part of Clara panged. She wanted to correct Tanya; to assert that he was now an _ex-_ boyfriend, but the words were too uncomfortable to say. “Urm,” she managed instead, too tired to even get angry the fact that her private life was apparently splashed all over Facebook. “Yeah.” 

“And she was an archaeologist?”

“Yes, she was.” 

“I was always really interested in archaeology when I was a kid! I used to dig around in my mum’s flowerbeds thinking I might find dinosaur bones, my dad thought it was hilarious. Eventually, Mum got fed up with me getting all dirty, though, and broke it to me that the chances of me finding anything prehistoric in our little tiny back garden were basically zero, and I gave up in favour of chemistry kits and destroying her kitchen instead.”

“I, ah, I don’t think River specialised in dinosaurs.” 

“Was that really her name?” Tanya’s eyes widened in delight at being offered this nugget of information. 

“Yes.” 

“That’s a weird name,” the teenager made a face, then nervously giggled. “Like… like a stripper or something.” 

“I guess.” 

Something in her resigned tone made Tanya look at her properly then, and the girl did a double-take. “Miss, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Clara lied, trying to smile and half-succeeding. “Just tired.” 

“Have you been crying?” 

“No.” 

“Is everything-” 

“I said I’m fine!” Clara snapped, hating herself for losing her temper, but unable to keep it in check. “Please, just leave it.”

Tanya looked shocked, then nodded, tightly. “Sorry, miss.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said at once, feeling a surge of guilt. “I just… really don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s OK,” Tanya shrugged nonchalantly as they stepped through the school gates. “I know what you mean, I was the same when my dad died and people kept asking questions about it. Whatever it is, I hope you’re alright, miss.” She checked her phone. “Crap, gotta run; meeting Ram in the library.” 

“Ram _Singh_?” Clara asked, momentarily forgetting her situation and instead feeling bemused. “From the football team?” 

“Yeah.” Tanya looked a touch embarrassed. “I tutor him for Physics.” 

“Oh,” Clara smiled. “Well, you two have fun.”

Tanya rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we won’t. Quill’s set this bloody _evil_ homework.”

Clara chuckled to herself as the teenager turned and headed off in the direction of the library. It seemed an unlikely friendship, but it could be good for both of them. 

_Unlikely._

Her brain had innocuously offered up the word, but now it had brought on a flood of uncomfortable reminders of her and John, and she shivered, striding purposefully towards the staff room in the hope that there would be more coffee and copies of today’s _Guardian_ for her to settle down with to distract her from her own thoughts. The _Guardian_ wouldn’t be speculating about John’s past. The _Guardian_ wouldn’t be wasting column inches over-analysing her relationship. 

Pushing open the door, she was irritated to find Adrian sprawled across one of the sofas, drinking from her favourite mug and skimming through the _Times_ with an air of superiority that was tangible, even from the doorway. 

“Hello,” he said, without looking up, taking a long drag of coffee and smiling in a serene, maddening fashion. “Was getting worried about you, you know?” 

“You… were?” she asked, discomfited by his concern. “Why?” 

“No radio show on Friday or Saturday,” he raised an eyebrow, still engrossed in the features section. “After _that_ scandalous article on Friday and your terribly urgent ‘personal crisis’… well, people might get the wrong idea.” 

“Oh?” she asked, taking a step towards him, and he folded the broadsheet down onto his lap and then looked her, seeming startled by her appearance. If he wanted to act like a smug tosser, she would happily play him at his own game. “Like what?” 

Adrian seemed taken aback by her composure. “Like…” he stammered, wrong-footed. “Like that you might have broken up with John.”

Clara arched an eyebrow, feeling a sense of calm settle over her in the face of Adrian’s calculated questioning. She knew he’d held a torch for her since her first day at Coal Hill, but she hadn’t expected him to be quite so… forward when things fell apart. “Oh, no,” she said coolly, giving him a wide, empty smile. “He broke up with me.” 

“Ah,” Adrian mumbled, and Clara could tell he was too disconcerted to even consider smirking with glee. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m quite distraught,” Clara continued in a perfectly measured tone, approaching her now very afraid-looking colleague. “Absolutely devastated. Spent the weekend crying on my best friend.” 

“That’s awful.” 

“And do you know what, Adrian?” she asked, bending down to whisper in his ear in a pitying tone. “I’m still not going to fuck you. Do you understand? It’s never going to happen.” 

“I…” he gulped for breath, looking panicked that his intentions had been discovered. “I… Clara… I never…” 

“Get out,” she said simply and he scrambled to his feet, darting from the room with his paper and leaving her alone.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day was, as far as Clara was concerned, somewhat akin to a living hell. Endless stares and half-concealed whispers followed her wherever she went, with students breaking off their conversations to gape at her still-pink, yet defiantly kohl-lined eyes, her general weariness, and her clenched fists. It had been the same after Danny: the same guilty, furtive looks and the same pitying expressions; only then there had been no whispers and no rumours, because he was dead and there was no speculating to be done over that empirical fact. 

She spent most of the day avoiding students’ questions about her personal life, dismissing her appearance as the result of a difficult weekend and hoping that maybe some of the brighter kids would pick up on the connotations of her words. They certainly seemed to have done by break time, because there was an increased amount of phone usage in her class, but she didn’t have the energy to chastise them for it, not least because she wasn’t sure she had enough desk space to store thirty teenagers’ phones. Instead, she ignored the muted pinging of WhatsApp and Messenger notifications, letting them speculate on matters via their group chats. She knew that saying even one word on the matter would be fatal — she was in no doubt as to how quickly that spark of news would spread like wildfire, and she didn’t want to have to face that. 

By lunch, a large percentage of her students were seething with fury over her irritation to answer questions, and it was growing harder to keep a lid on matters. Clara wasn’t stupid. She knew none of them were overly concerned with her welfare — well, none except perhaps April MacLean — but instead they favoured the currency of gossip; the social capital associated with “finding out what happened to Miss Oswald” was enormous, and the teenagers seemed determined to weasel the truth out of her, knowing what it would mean for their reputations if they could get her to crack.

By last period, anarchy was on the verge of breaking out in her classroom. Students were unwilling to so much as look at their assigned books; discussions of coursework were brushed aside with ease, and no one was even glancing at the Jane Austen quote that Clara had inscribed on the board in her neatest handwriting. 

The assembled teenagers continued, one by one, to beg for details, and finally Clara decided the only way out was to strike a deal with them. 

“Do some work,” she told them firmly. “I want at least one hundred words about Lydia Bennet from each of you, and then I might think about explaining.” 

And thus, with minimal grumbling, they set to work, and when the bell rang at quarter past three, Clara collected thirty handwritten mini-essays, scrawled in scripts of varying levels of legibility. “Right,” she said pragmatically, willing herself not to cry. “Since you’re all dying to know, I got dumped. Class dismissed, see you all tomorrow.” 

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but what she got was akin to uproar. The girls gave a gasp of shock and the boys looked furious, with loud, barely concealed mutters of “bastard” and “wanker,” and cruder words she pretended not to hear circulating the room, as the students voiced their displeasure at… well, John, and what he’d done. The realisation that they _did_ care — that they weren’t simply invested in bettering their social standings after all — was too much, and Clara sank into her desk and began to cry as the class lapsed into a horrified silence.

“Miss?” one of the girls said after a moment, approaching her and handing her a tissue which she immediately used to dab at her eyes. “Miss, it’s alright. We all think he’s a dickhead.” 

“No, he’s not,” Clara sobbed. “He’s… I just…” 

“If he comes back here, we’ll thump the twat for you, miss,” one of the taller boys interjected, cheerfully. “Me and the rugby team.” 

“That’s very sweet, Tom, but…” 

“You deserve better, miss,” the girl by her side said, and Clara nodded, heartened by the words. “We’re really sorry.”

“That’s OK,” she mopped at her eyes again. “Thank you, everyone. You can go home, honestly, I’m fine.” 

“Don’t be silly. Someone go to the canteen and get her a cuppa, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

By the time Clara made it home, sometime after five o’clock, Amy was pacing in the lounge, looking panicked. 

“Oh my god,” she said at once, throwing her arms around Clara and clinging to her in a bone-crushing embrace. “I was so worried, I thought something had happened… I was going mental.” 

“Sorry,” Clara mumbled, her face squashed into Amy’s chest. “I told my Year Ten class.”

“And?” Amy asked, pulling back and holding Clara at arm’s length. “What happened?” 

“They were really nice about it. Hence being late back.” 

“Good,” Amy visibly relaxed. “How are you feeling?”

“Craptastic. Can we watch rubbish TV?” 

“Absolutely,” Amy acquiesced. “Do I need to kill anyone?” 

Clara rolled her eyes. “Not today, Amy. No.”


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John releases a statement to the press, and Amy exacts her revenge.

Clara had known, logically, that eventually the media would pick up on her absence from Radio TARDIS and start asking questions, and that a statement would have to be made by either herself or John in order to placate the wolves of Fleet Street. She just hadn’t expected them to notice things quite so soon, or for John’s statement to be quite so… newsworthy.

Headlines, each more lurid than the next, screamed out from the front page of every tabloid paper she saw at the corner shop. She didn’t need to skim through any of them; she already knew what they would say and how they would say it, and she had little interest in watching her former relationship be picked apart.

There would be a short reprint of John’s statement. 

There would be photographs of the two of them in happier times that she didn’t want to – and, indeed, _couldn’t_ – look at. 

And then there would be pages and pages of speculation from various columnists and journalists and so-called experts on what precisely had gone wrong; whose fault the break-up had been; what the couple’s body language had been saying in the weeks leading up to the split; points of view from mysterious ‘sources close to the couple.’ All of that bollocks, like it wasn’t the bloody tabloids’ fault that the split had happened in the first place. 

Clara knew all of this because she’d been woken in the small hours by the _ping_ of a Google Alert, then another, then another, until she’d had to silence her phone for fear of waking Amy. She’d discovered a veritable cornucopia of speculation and dissection and something akin to gloating, all there in black and white on various salacious websites for the whole world to see. John’s statement had been released the evening before, yet she already had it memorised. She could see his cool, composed face as he dictated it to Andrew or Raz or someone else at the station before sending it off to the press for them to gloat over contemptuously. 

 _It is with deepest regret that I must confirm that Clara and I have called time on our relationship. We enjoyed a wonderful few months together but unfortunately things did not work out, and we have parted as friends. I ask that you respect our privacy at this difficult time._

What a load of bollocks. Framing it like she’d had a say; framing it like she’d approved his damn words before he’d sent them off to the media and let them wing their way through cyberspace. “Things did not work out.” What a bloody polite way of saying “I dumped her unceremoniously and without warning, leaving her with her second broken heart in two years.” And as for “parting as friends”… she snorted aloud, then remembered where she was, realised she looked a touch unhinged, and seized a pint of milk from the fridge, setting it down on the counter and delving into her pocket for a handful of coins. 

“Good morning, Miss Clara,” Bennett the shopkeeper said brightly, offering her a broad smile that was at odds with her bitter mood. “I am sorry to hear about yourself and Mister John. You were a lovely couple, if I may be so bold.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled as politely as she was able, handing him the correct change and trying not to look overly sour. “It was for the best, really.” 

“But the two of you were so content,” he looked downcast. “Always smiling, always happy. I liked your show very much. I would listen to it and tell everyone in here that I knew Miss Clara; that Miss Clara frequented my shop.”

Clara felt abruptly like she was going to cry. “Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing the milk and heading back towards the flat in an attempt at self-preservation. Trudging upstairs, she kept her eyes downcast and her head bowed lest anyone attempt to initiate conversation with her, and as she stepped through the front door she was surprised to find Rory stood in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Morning,” she said, furrowing her brow as she tried to work out why he was here so early. He hadn’t spent the night – at least, not as far as she knew. “Rory, it’s seven in the morning, what-” 

“I’m here because, urm,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Amy has insisted I go over to John’s and break his legs.” 

Clara blinked at him in consternation. “Rory, you’re a nurse. You’re meant to fix people’s broken legs, not cause them.” 

“Amy was really quite insistent about the matter.” 

“Amy can do the leg breaking herself then,” Clara said loudly, knowing her flatmate would be lurking nearby, and sure enough she appeared from the lounge, scowling blackly at Clara. “And then _you_ can patch him up in an attempt to avert him from pressing charges.” 

“I think it’s a good idea,” Amy muttered sourly. “Rory, tell her.” 

“Amy, wasn’t it _you_ that vowed to break his legs and remove his testicles should he do anything to hurt me?” Clara asked. “I don’t recall Rory featuring in that equation, so stop trying to make the poor man commit ABH.” 

“Good point,” Amy’s face lit up, and she danced past Clara and out the front door before either of them could say another word. 

“That is…” Rory raised his eyebrows. “Probably going to end very badly.” 

“I have no doubt of that,” Clara sighed. “Oh well, the wanker has it coming. Whatever ‘it’ may be.” 

Rory said nothing for a moment, instead looking down at Clara with concern. “How are you?” he asked gently. “I mean, obviously not good, but… how are you doing?” 

“Fine,” Clara lied in the most upbeat tone she could manage. “Absolutely fine.” 

“Clara.” 

“Shit,” she confessed, against her better judgement. Rory had this effect on people; he made them feel safe enough to admit things, whether they were planning to or not. It was both reassuring and a touch disconcerting, yet at that moment Clara was grateful for his stoic, calm manner as she continued: “Absolutely shit.” 

“Does Amy getting revenge help with that?”

“Oh, absolutely.” 

“Good, I won’t run after her then,” he laughed. “I doubt she’ll do anything overly illegal, anyway. She’s too smart for that.” 

“She is,” Clara sighed again, her shoulders slumping and the smile slipping from her face. “This might be weird but can I just… have a hug?” 

“Sure,” Rory didn’t ask why, and Clara loved him for that. He just held out his arms and let her step into them, holding her as she took deep breaths and tried not to fall apart. “Hey. Hey, it’s OK,” he said. 

“No, it’s not.” 

“It is. You’ve got me, and Amy, and your family, and your friends, and we all love and care about you very much.”

“Haven’t got John though.”

“I know,” Rory murmured, stroking her hair and letting her cling to him. “I promise you though – this will pass.” 

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll find a way to make sure it does.”

 

* * *

 

John was enjoying his first cup of coffee of the day and trying not to think about the tabloids’ reaction to his press statement when there was a knock on his door. Frowning slightly and setting the mug down extremely unwillingly, he headed down the hall and opened the door to find his rather eccentric neighbour stood on the top step, his entire face a mask of concern. 

“Everything OK, Wilf?” John asked, not understanding the cause for the elderly gentleman’s concern. “You look…”

“It’s your garage, John,” Wilf blurted, his voice trembling the barest amount. “I went to get my fishing gear out of mine, and the big door to yours was ajar, and…”

“And what?” John frowned, wondering what could have got Wilf so worked up. “What’s wrong?” 

“You should’ve left it on the drive; this would never have happened on the drive, it would’ve-” 

“What wouldn’t?” John interrupted, feeing bewildered by Wilf’s agitation. “What’s happened?” 

“Go and have a look for yourself, John.” 

John felt a stab of panic as he raced towards the kitchen and snatched up the key to his garage. He’d only moved the car in an attempt to fool journalists into thinking he was out, yet now he wasn’t entirely sure if that decision had been for the best. He was vaguely aware of Wilf trailing behind him as he headed outside, traversing his short stretch of garden and jogging towards the garage, and as he jammed his key into the door that opened onto his lawn, he tried not to let his imagination run wild.

Stepping into the darkened space, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did his jaw dropped. 

His car was wrapped in layer upon layer of cling film, rendering the usually-black car a curious shade of iridescent silver. On the windscreen – or rather, on the plastic that was covering the windscreen – the words “YOU WERE WARNED” had been sprayed in what he strongly suspected was shaving foam, and as he looked around the garage he noticed that each of the hubcaps had been carefully removed and set beside their respective tyres, all of which were flat. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” John muttered, crouching down to inspect one and feeling a small surge of relief that it hadn’t been slashed. “How…” 

He remembered Amy’s warning, of course. It was hard to forget a warning that graphic or specific, particularly when made by a five foot eleven Scottish woman; he just hadn’t fully expected her to follow through on the threat. He had to hand it to her, though: this was genius. 

“Want me to phone the police?” Wilf asked in a small, frightened voice. “Get ‘em down here to find out who did it?” 

“Nah,” John shrugged, straightening up and looking around for something sharp with which he could begin hacking his way into his car. “I know who did it, and I don’t blame her.” 

“Well, you’ve gotta press charges!” Wilf protested. “She can’t do this!” 

“She can, and she has,” John located a pair of blunt garden secateurs and began hacking his way through the plastic wrap on the driver’s side. “She didn’t damage the car, just messed with it, and I have no intention of getting the police involved.” 

“Was it that ex-girlfriend of yours?” Wilf asked, and John froze at the mere allusion to Clara. “The pretty one?” 

“No,” he said as nonchalantly as he was able. “Not her.” 

“So…”

John peeled back a small section of cling film and swore aloud as he discovered the final part of Amy’s revenge. 

Packing peanuts. The entire car was chock-full of packing peanuts, from the footwells to the roof. 

“How in hell’s name…” John muttered, then remembered leaving the car window open a crack. “For fuck _sake_ , that bloody woman.”

“Sure you don’t want to press charges?” Wilf asked, and John let out a long breath.

“Sure,” he said through gritted teeth. “Absolutely sure. Now, do you have any bin bags?”

 

* * *

 

Clara was on the way home when her phone pinged and she drew it out of her pocket idly, expecting Amy or Rory or her dad to be checking up on her. Instead, she felt her heart stop as she took in the name onscreen; nine letters that made her breathing hitch and her chest feel tight.

**John Smith.**

After taking several deep breaths, she opened the text to find it contained the cryptic message: 

 _Tell her I won’t be pressing charges._

“What the hell?” she muttered to herself, then recalled Amy sweeping from the flat that morning, hell-bent on vengeance. “Amy, what the hell have you done?” 

Clara all but ran from the Underground station to her flat, stumbling over the threshold and immediately hollering her best friend’s name. Amy sidled into the hall after a moment’s delay, appearing momentarily gleeful before rearranging her face into a more neutral expression and looking down at her tiny flatmate. 

“Hello,” she said brightly. “How was your day at work? Were the students well behaved?” 

“Amy, what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing,” Amy smiled angelically. “Absolutely nothing.” 

“Why the hell did John text me saying he won’t be pressing charges, then?”

“Shit, he texted you?” Amy’s eyes narrowed menacingly and her innocent aura fell away. “Next time I’m slashing the prick’s tyres.”

“What do you mean, ‘next time’?” Clara demanded to know, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or chastise her friend. “What did you do?” 

“Wanna see the photos?” 

“Of course,” Clara confirmed without hesitation, and then her eyes widened in shock as Amy thrust her iPhone into her hand. “Oh. My. _God_.”


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tabloids make a mix-up, and Clara is forced to clear matters up with Bonnie once and for all.

Clara and Amy were halfway into a bottle of wine, toasting the arrival of the weekend, when Clara’s phone made a muted pinging sound from where it was wedged between two sofa cushions. After a great deal of cursing, pillow-throwing and giggling, the offending item was located and unlocked, and the message onscreen deciphered through a haze of wine, pretzels and Indian takeaway.

**Dad:** _There’s been a bit of a mix up, love. Check Google._

“Why,” Clara asked, groaning loudly at her father’s inability to just get to the point. “Does he have to be so bloody cryptic? Also, since when did he text? Unacceptable behaviour for anyone over forty.”

“I’m impressed,” Amy took a sip of wine, mulling over the issue. “My dad’ll be doing it next, and then we’ll know for sure it’s the beginning of the end.” 

Too tipsy to type, Clara instead opted for calling her dad as Amy giggled next to her, swilling the wine in her glass around and reaching for her own phone as Clara waited for the call to connect.

“Clara?” her dad said upon answering, and she was confused by the concern in his voice. “Thank goodness, have you seen it?” 

“Seen what?” 

“The article,” he clarified impatiently. “About... well, it’s a mix-up, but they don’t know that.” 

“What article?” 

“The one in… hang on, are you drunk?”

“No,” Clara told him magnanimously, taking a gulp of wine before explaining: “I’m tipsy.” 

“For goodness sake, Clara,” he snapped. “Have some coffee or something, check the _Mail Online_ and then call me back.” 

He hung up before she could think of something witty to say, leaving her panicking as she fumbled with her phone. Coffee? Coffee wasn’t needed; the news that she was once again the subject of a tabloid article was enough of a worry for the effects of the alcohol in her system to be minimalised, and if she was shaking as she typed her name into the search bar it was out of terror, not inebriation. They had written about her _again._ Not content with scrutinising her relationship in the wake of John’s press statement the week before, they had apparently got wind of something else. Something major; something… 

Clara realised with perfect clarity, as she hit _search,_ what the mix-up was.

 _From changing songs to changing nappies: former radio presenter Clara Oswald seen out and about with a baby bump following split from co-presenter John Smith._  

“For the love of…” she muttered, clicking on the article and scrolling through it once it had loaded. It was accompanied by a series of blurry, long-lens photographs that she scowled at in displeasure as she added: “Those idiots.” 

“What?” Amy asked, leaning over and peering over her shoulder. “Hang on, isn’t that Bon? In your coat?” 

“Yep,” Clara said, sighing heavily. “She stopped by yesterday in this cute little maternity dress but no coat, so obviously, the lovely British weather decided it was the optimum time for a downpour. I said she could borrow my coat so she didn’t die of hypothermia on the way home.” 

“And…” 

“And some pap with nothing better to do got a photo of her wearing it out, put two and two together, and got five. You know, never mind the fact I wasn’t pregnant a week ago. Never mind the fact I wouldn’t be _that_ pregnant after only being with John barely five months.” 

“To be fair…” Amy squinted down at the pictures, zooming in on one to examine it more closely. “She doesn’t look huge.”

“That’s not the point!” Clara argued. “God, I thought people _knew_ about Bon! I thought I’d made it clear enough by mentioning ‘my pregnant cousin’ on the show and to people we met! Especially after that bloody IKEA debacle!” 

“Clara, do remember that people who write for the _Daily Mail_ are quite stupid.” 

“Point,” Clara groaned, putting her head in her hands. “Oh god, poor Bon, she’s gonna get it in the neck from journos next time she goes out.” 

“Call her,” Amy instructed. “I’ll get online and see what people are saying, if they believe it, that sort of thing. Gauge how much damage control is needed.” 

Clara nodded tightly and dialled her cousin’s number, listening to it ring for what felt like an interminable amount of time before Bonnie picked up. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Just saw the article, are you OK?” 

“Yeah,” her cousin said in a tremulous voice, before admitting: “No. I don’t know. I never thought people would actually… I’m not exactly a secret, am I? Why and how are they still doing this?” 

“You’re not a secret at all, but Amy did point out that tabloid hacks are generally quite dim.” 

“You can say that again… I had one of them bother me in Tesco earlier, asking if John and I fell out because of the baby.” 

“Jesus,” Clara felt a swooping sense of guilt. “What did you say?” 

“‘Fuck off.’” 

Clara snorted with laughter. “Probably for the best. I just… I can’t believe they’d think this was actually a thing. It’s not like I’ve been a recluse for the last few weeks; people will testify that I’m not pregnant. I mean, I’ve gone for drinks with colleagues; it’s not like I’d be doing that if I was expecting.” 

“I know,” Bonnie sighed wearily. “Can people come forward and say that quite soon, though? I’d like to be able to leave the house and go to my pre-natal classes without getting harassed.” 

“Bon, I’m so sorry. Would it help if I came over?” 

“I guess? Will is with me as well though, so you don’t have to.” 

“No, I want to. Is Elijah OK?” 

“I think he knows I’m stressed, because for once he isn’t kicking my spine. Miracle of miracles.” 

Clara smiled wanly. “I’ll be there in an hour or so, OK?”

“Sure. See you then.” 

There was a _click_ as her cousin hung up, and then Clara looked to Amy, awaiting a status report. Expecting to find Amy rolling her eyes at tweets or Facebook posts, Clara was disconcerted to instead find her still skimming through the comments section with visible displeasure, occasionally narrowing her eyes for no discernible reason. 

“What?” Clara asked, trying to sound less nervous than she felt. “Is it that bad?” 

“Urm,” Amy made a face. “I think going over to Bonnie’s and clearing this mess up might be the best possible course of action, because currently the  _Mail Online'_ s comments section is divided between thinking that John dumped you because you’re pregnant, and wanting to go egg his house; thinking you dumped John because you’re pregnant and wanting to come and egg our place; and thinking you two should bury the hatchet and get back together because isn’t it cute that you’re having a baby. Urm, yeah, that’s not how adult relationships work.” 

“Wow.” 

“Yeah, wow. That’s filtering out all the swearing and slut-shaming and general vitriol.”

“Oh, good,” Clara grimaced. “Why don’t you come over to Bon’s with me? Just in case people decide to egg the flat, or come over with their pitchforks.” 

“I might stay here and invite Rory over,” Amy shrugged. “At least then, if they come over they can’t break in and nick anything. Not without a fight, anyway.”

“This is true,” Clara got to her feet, bending down and pressing a kiss to Amy’s forehead. “I’m sorry for ruining our evening. Gonna go pack an overnight bag, OK?” 

“It’s fine babe, this isn’t your fault. Go and pack; getting dressed might also be a plan,” Amy grinned, gesturing to her flatmate’s joggers and oversized hoodie. “You don’t want to fuel any rumours now, do you?”

“Hilarious,” Clara deadpanned, heading into her room and stuffing her pyjamas, a change of clothes, and assorted items of makeup into a bag. Changing into something slightly more practical, she stuck her head into the lounge and found Amy chatting to Rory on the phone, so she waved a goodbye and then headed outside and towards the nearest bus stop, thankful for the cover of darkness. There weren’t yet any journalists camped out on her doorstep, but she had no doubt that they would soon take up residence, and vowed to clear things up before that could happen. 

Thankfully, apart from a few stares as people recognised her from the papers, the journey to Bonnie’s was largely uneventful. Arriving at Will’s near-palatial house, she pressed the buzzer for the annexe but was surprised when the door to the main house opened, revealing Will, dressed in worn-looking jeans and a white shirt, and looking exhausted but welcoming. “Hey,” he called, offering her an awkward little wave. “She’s in here with me, come on through. Didn’t want to leave her on her own down in the annexe in case anyone got any ideas about ringing her doorbell or going through her bins or god knows what else.” 

Clara nodded in silent agreement, ascending the steps and stepping into the enormous hallway. She’d been inside Will’s part of the house once or twice before, but only ever extremely briefly, and she craned her head to admire the huge, glass-and-chrome chandelier as she followed him into the lounge. 

Bonnie was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in an enormous jumper with a fluffy grey blanket tucked around her legs, pulled up to conceal the convex curve of her stomach. “Hey,” she said tiredly as soon as she saw Clara, struggling into a more vertical position. “You came.” 

“Of course I came,” Clara put her bag down and then gestured towards the space next to Bon. “Am I OK to sit?” 

“Sure,” her cousin scooted over a little, and the blanket fell away from her stomach. “Snuggle up.” 

Clara plonked down beside her and immediately pulled her cousin into a hug, noticing the way she was shaking fractionally and hating herself for having – in some way – caused this upset. “Hey,” she murmured, stroking Bon’s hair slowly and reassuringly. “Hey, it’s alright. We can fix this.” 

“Can we?” Will asked, and it was then that she noticed him hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room, his face oscillating between anger and concern. “Because she’s stressed as hell, and it’s not good for her or the baby.” 

“Stop fussing,” Bonnie pleaded, patting the space on the other side of her, and Will approached the sofa reluctantly, taking a seat and folding his arms in a defensive position. “It’ll be OK. I’m sure Clara has a plan.” 

“I do,” Clara said slowly, having mulled it over on the journey to Will’s. “It’s nothing technical, but it should work. Do you have, like, I don’t know… a maternity T-shirt which highlights the bump? You know, one of those cheesy ‘hands off the bump’ ones, that kind of thing?”

“Sure,” Bonnie peeled off her jumper and gestured to the T-shirt below, which was dusky pink and bore the words _COMING SOON_ across the stomach. “Will got it for me last week as a pyjama top. It’s both adorable _and_ comfy.” 

“That’s cute, not to mention perfect,” Clara forced herself to smile cheerfully. “Will, in your capacity as Baby Daddy Extraordinaire, could you possibly take a couple of photos of me and Bon?” 

“Sure,” he said, looking somewhat taken aback. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Urm,” Clara chewed her lip. “A couple of the two of us sat together like this, and then maybe a couple of like, just our stomachs? Then people can see that there’s two of us, and that one of us is pregnant and it isn’t me.” 

“My cousin, the social media and PR guru,” Bonnie teased, wrapping one arm around Clara’s waist as Will took her phone and obediently snapped a series of photos of the two of them snuggled up together. “You’ve missed a calling, Clara.” 

Clara laughed. “Don’t say that, I’ve already been told I’ve missed hundreds,” she joked. “Maybe I’m just multi-talented; people don’t consider that.”

“True,” Bonnie acquiesced as Will stepped closer and gently prodded each of them into position so that he could take bump-and-no-bump shots. “Then again… my baby daddy, the pro photographer.” 

He blushed furiously. “Just… doing what people at work do, you know? I’ve seen lots of author shoots and magazine shoots and things like that; you pick up some things.” 

“Yeah, yeah, Mr Modesty” Bonnie reached over and ruffled his hair fondly. “Very cute, babe.” 

He took a couple more photos then poked his tongue out and handed the phone back to Clara. “See what you think. Let me know if they’re all terrible, and we can take some more.” 

After ten minutes of poring over the surprisingly decent shots, selecting filters and trying to work out a suitable caption, the two of them eventually settled on: 

_Two cousins, both alike in looks,_

_In fair London where we lay our scene,_

_From old confusion stems new bafflement,_

_And tabloid hacks make tabloid errors._

_From forth the loins of one of these women_

_Comes a baby boy, six weeks from now_

_That one woman is NOT ME._

“I like it,” Will said with a grin, as Clara hit _post_ and then leant back, allowing herself to relax a modicum. “Very… literary.” 

“I mean, we’re hopefully less doomed,” Bonnie reasoned. “But it _is_ witty.” 

Clara’s phone buzzed a minute later and she looked down at it, expecting an amused message from Amy but instead feeling her heart stop. 

**John Smith:** _Thanks for clearing up the confusion. Hope all is well. x_

Her face fell as she read and re-read each word, her eyes lingering on the ‘x’ at the end. How dare he have the gall to sign off like that? Like they were _friends_? He’d left her and broken her heart, yet he had the cheek to sign off the text with a kiss? 

“Clara?” Bonnie asked, reaching for her cousin’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “Hey, what is it?” 

Clara handed her the phone, watching Bonnie raise her eyebrows as she read the message. 

“What a prick,” Bonnie locked the device and then handed it to Will, who placed it on the coffee table out of Clara’s reach. “So, I propose no more worrying about him. Instead, we can snuggle and you can worry about me and Elijah being cute while Will gets us ice cream.” 

“I’m… getting you ice cream?” he asked, blinking a little in confusion. 

“Yes, babe,” she confirmed, patting his hand patiently. “You are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara's Instagram caption is a paraphrased version of the prologue from _Romeo and Juliet,_ and Bonnie's maternity top can be found [here.](http://www.asos.com/asos-maternity/asos-maternity-coming-soon-slogan-t-shirt/prd/7883295?clr=nude&SearchQuery=&cid=5813&pgesize=204&pge=0&totalstyles=258&gridsize=3&gridrow=34&gridcolumn=3)


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to present solo, and ends up making a resolution. One involving Clara...

John sighed and ruffled his hair, leaning forward until his elbows were resting on the desk so that he could comfortably put his head in his hands. He didn’t want to be sitting in the studio alone, or in the studio at all, but alas, here he was, trying to come up with ideas for that night’s playlist. Andrew was trying to help,  but he was too young to have heard most of the songs that John suggested. 

“I don’t…” the lad stammered, standing in the doorway and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, turning a fiery shade of red as he did so. “I don’t know who Joy Division is.” 

“ _Are_ ,” John corrected. “They’re a band, not a singer. God, you’re bloody hopeless; you’re half the age of half these artists. How am I meant to get anything done when you don’t know a damn thing about music?” 

“I _do_ know about music,” Andrew protested, looking up to meet John’s gaze in a surprisingly bold move for the once-timid youngster. “Just… it’s music from _this_ century.” 

“Ach, like I said,” John muttered sourly. “Bloody hopeless. You should listen to some of the stuff I keep naming; might do you some good in directing your taste away from that No Direction crap.” 

“ _One_ Direction split up ages ago,” Andrew informed him in an icy tone. “But sure, John, do keep being rude to me and making assumptions about my music taste, that’s fine.” 

John blinked in surprise at the boy’s gall. He hadn’t expected him to stick up for himself, and he had to admit that he was impressed. “Did you just…” he began, thrown by the abrupt change of character. “Did you just actually grow a backbone?” 

“Yes, I did!” Andrew all but shouted. “You’ve been nothing but bloody miserable since Clara and Amy left, and you’re taking it out on me and I’m sick of it! I don’t know what I’m doing any more than you do, but I’m trying my best. If you don’t like that, we can either phone Amy up and grovel, or do the same with Missy, and I don’t think Raz is going to be keen on either of those ideas.” 

“No, he’s not,” John said hastily, mentally shuddering at the idea. “No, you’re… you’re fine. You’re right, I’ve been treating you like crap and I’m sorry. I just…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, and instead gestured vaguely to the empty chair that Clara had once occupied. He couldn’t bring himself to have Andrew remove it from the studio, painful reminder though it was. 

“I know,” Andrew said more gently. “I know that you miss her.” 

“It’s…” John flinched, uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of pity. “More complicated than that.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“Not really, no,” John tried to shrug nonchalantly. 

“John.” 

“Kid, you’re too young to understand.” 

“I’m not a kid,” Andrew shot back, narrowing his eyes at John. “I’m twenty-five.”

John chuckled, but not maliciously. “To me, son, that’s a kid. When you’re my age, everyone seems to be a young whippersnapper.”

“Including Clara?” 

John froze, and Andrew’s face fell.

“I didn’t…” Andrew stammered, looking panicked. “I don’t… I’m not trying…” 

“No, it’s alright,” John assured him after a moment, taking a deep breath and steeling himself to touch upon the subject. “Yes, including Clara. She was… she was perfect, but she was too young, and she deserves someone better than me.” 

“You mean ‘someone younger,’ don’t you?” 

“Aye, someone younger. Someone who isn’t going to get her in the papers every day of the week, or attract attention when she’s out. She deserves to be happy and she wasn’t happy with me.” 

“I’d dispute that,” Andrew said quietly. “She used to look at you like you were the only thing in the whole world that mattered.” 

John laughed a short, harsh laugh. “No, she didn’t.” 

“How would you know?” Andrew asked, raising an eyebrow. “I watched the two of you together, and I’m telling you that she did.” 

“Andrew, don’t.” 

“Why? Can’t you go and do something stupid and romantic and win her back so I don’t have to deal with you moping around here like a wet weekend?”

“Not really, no,” John confessed. “Not after how badly I hurt her.” 

“ _A-ha!_ ” Andrew grinned from ear to ear. “So, you haven’t ruled the idea out?”

“I didn’t say that!” 

“But you didn’t outright say that it was a ludicrous idea and you absolutely wouldn’t do it. Which is basically the same as admitting you’re considering it.” 

“What are you, my therapist?” 

“Don’t be such a grump. Win her back.” 

“No,” John growled, though he had to admit, the idea _was_ tempting. 

“Win her back.” 

“No.” 

“Wi-” 

“If you say ‘win her back’ again, I will find something painful and humiliating to do to you, and do it.”

“You’re rubbish at threats,” Andrew rolled his eyes. “That’s not scary at all.” 

“Shut up,” John mumbled. “Brain too tired to think of a decent one.” 

“You know,” Andrew said after a moment’s hesitation. “If you need time off to think, and to try and get things together, I’m sure Raz could arrange that.” 

“Raz-” 

“-Thinks you’re a total pillock,” John’s boss said cheerfully, stepping into the studio with a smile that looked more like a grimace. “You and Clara were the dream team, and you just had to go and cock things up for us, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, yeah,” John said in a scathing tone, instantly on the defensive. “I forgot that ending my relationship came as a massive commercial blow for you. How absolutely unreasonable of me.” 

“Well, listenership _is_ down,” Raz mused. “But I was mainly referring to the fact that you’ve been a miserable bastard ever since you dumped the poor woman, and it’s really starting to drag your show down. People want levity! People want humour! People don’t want to listen to maudlin breakup songs and obscure Scottish punk on the way home from work!” 

“You knew what you were getting in for when you gave us the slot.” 

“‘Us’?! I didn’t anticipate you _dumping her_ and turning into a miserable Scottish prick!” 

“Well, you should’ve.” 

“Your mood and behaviour are on _you_ , not on me,” Raz snapped. “ _I_ wasn’t the one who had a meltdown and ended things. _I_ wasn’t the one who broke her heart. _I_ wasn’t the one who fucked up a good thing.” 

“You’re _my_ boss,” John muttered sourly. “I thought you were meant to be on my side.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one who got a call from her flatmate hours after you dumped her, you arsehole.” 

“Hey!” 

“What? You _are_ an arsehole. That poor fucking girl; she lost her boyfriend, made the mistake of falling in love with you, and how do you repay her? You break her heart and destroy her life. Yeah, John. Good one. Really bloody excellent.” 

“I didn’t destroy her life!” 

“Jesus, John!” Raz threw his hands in the air. “The papers are haranguing her, I’m in no doubt whatsoever that her students are doing the same, and, to top it all off, she’s got a broken heart. What part of that have you not contributed to?”

“The… the press are still bothering her?” 

“Do you not own a phone? Or have Internet access? Or, you know, go to shops? Yes, they’re bothering her, you moron!” 

“I never…” John stammered, taken aback by this nugget of information. “I wanted to stop all of that. I wanted to protect her from them.”

“Well, it backfired. Majorly. So, I’ve lost Clara, I’ve lost Amy, and I’ve basically lost you, because you’re a miserable fucking git at the best of times, but this _really_ takes the damn biscuit.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

“You sodding well won’t be if you don’t buck your ideas up, John. You’re a bloody liability anyway, what with everything that went on with River. I’ve got the media calling in several times a day asking for evaluations on how you’re doing, or asking to speak to you, and, frankly, I think the admin team are getting kind of sick of dealing with bloody journos.” 

“I wanted to _avoid_ this kind of thing!” John shot back. “I had no idea that this would happen! I didn’t want a… a goddamn media circus!” 

“Well, it’s happening, John,” Raz sighed, his anger ebbing away as fast as it had flared up. “And I don’t know what to make of it all.” 

“I’m committed to the station,” John said stubbornly. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” 

“I know you wouldn’t. Just… maybe try to act like you are. Try to stay upbeat and cheerful and actually make an effort to engage with people other than Andrew. Because — no offence, lad — people are getting worried about the company you keep.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Andrew asked, before John could think of a biting response. 

“Coffee with Missy?” Raz arched an eyebrow down. “What were you _thinking_ , John?” 

“How do you know about that?” 

“She put it on Facebook.”

“Bloody woman,” John growled. “Why do you even _have_ Facebook, anyway?”

“Because I’m not a dinosaur like you. I’m surprised Clara didn’t twist your arm into getting it.” 

“She tried,” John grimaced, looking down at his desk and flicking a crumb off the glossy surface. “She failed.” 

“You know she’s wiped all the photos of you from her profile, right?” Raz asked casually, and John’s head snapped up. 

“How could you… how do you…” 

“Please, you think I don’t have my employees on there?” Raz snorted. “They’re gone. Every single sickening couple selfie. Every holiday photo from Tuscany. Every dinner date, including all the photos of food. The lot.” 

John fell silent, processing this information. Clara was moving on, surely? That was what she was doing: she was putting their relationship behind her and moving on in precisely the way he had wanted. So why did he feel so hurt by this? Why was he so bothered by the fact that she’d erased all trace of him from her digital life? 

He knew, of course. Deep down, he knew why it bothered him, and it wasn’t a thought he wanted to entertain. He knew he was still in love with her; he’d been consciously skirting around the information warily, lest it detonate in his face and he do something overblown and romantic like dash to her flat with a hundred roses and plead for her to take him back. He wouldn’t — and couldn’t — do that. The press attention would die down, eventually. His heart would continue breaking, and aching, and then it would subside to the same raw, yet tolerable feeling he had experienced after losing River. In short, he would try to move on. And so would Clara. 

“Oh,” John forced himself to say, expression carefully neutral. “Well, that’s her choice.” 

“So, you’re not pissed off about that?” 

“No,” John said, truthfully. Not pissed off. _Hurt_. “Not at all.”

“And if she started posting selfies with another man…” 

“That would be her prerogative, and she would have the right to do so. That doesn’t mean you would have the right to tell me about it, though.” 

The thought of it stung. The thought of Clara with another man — or even with a woman — was jarringly painful; a fresh stab in the chest that robbed him of his breath. 

“Right,” Raz said, a smirk playing over his features. “Duly noted.” 

“Has she posted anything?” John asked, attempting — and failing — to keep his tone casual. “I mean. Other than hang out with Amy and Rory, has she done anything exciting?” 

“She’s not dead, if that’s what you mean,” Raz rolled his eyes. “And no, she’s not posted any ‘just got laid’ selfies, either.” 

“Right,” John nodded, tightly. “Yeah. Good. Fine.”

“Sure?” 

“I’m gonna go get a coffee,” he blurted, getting to his feet and lurching out of the studio towards the canteen. The thought of Clara with someone else was intolerable, even though he knew he had no right to feel like this. He’d known that ending things with her would lead to her moving on eventually, yet, when confronted with the possibility, he felt sick to his stomach. He needed to do what he’d wanted _her_ to do; he needed to try and get on with his life. But how could he when everything here reminded him of Clara? 

“Mate, you look like absolute crap.” 

He blinked, realising that, in his stupor, his feet had carried him to his destination on autopilot. He recognised the speaker, who was looking at him from behind her till with bemused consternation, one eyebrow cocked. He tried to recall her name for the sake of politeness, but was unsuccessful. 

“Thanks,” he said drily. “Not blunt at all.” 

“It’s about Clara, isn’t it?” 

“How the hell…” 

“Please,” she snorted. “That woman used to talk about you _constantly._ If she wasn’t so cute, it would’ve been kind of annoying.” 

“She used to talk about me to you?” he asked, a touch more condescendingly than he intended, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, to me. Isn’t that surprising? Talking to the ‘hired help,’” she sketched sarcastic little quotation marks in mid-air around the words. “Unlike some of your delightful colleagues, Clara always made an effort to speak to me about things other than what she wanted to buy. _And_ she remembered my name. Bet you can’t.” 

“Bet _you_ can’t remember my coffee order,” he said evasively, and, if at all possible, her eyebrows raised even higher. 

“Challenge accepted,” she said at once, bustling away to the coffee maker as he loitered by the till, fishing around in his pocket for change. What felt like seconds later, a latte and six packets of sugar were placed in front of him, a small Lotus biscuit perched beside the mug and a small bar of dark chocolate next to that. “There.” 

“That’s…” he blinked, surprised by her attention to detail. “Impressive.”

“And my name is?” 

“Bill,” he remembered abruptly. “It’s Bill, right?” 

She smiled, and her eyebrows lowered. “It is, indeed.” 

“How much do I owe you?” 

“It’s on the house.” 

‘Thanks,” he mumbled, touched by the gesture. “That’s kind of you.” 

“Just… go and do something about it.” 

“About what?”

“Clara,” Bill explained. “I miss having you both sat in my canteen being adorable. So, do something about it. That’s an order.”


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie goes into labour.

Clara was in class, scrawling on the whiteboard in smeared blue pen, when her phone vibrated loudly in her desk drawer. Immediately embarrassed as the students in front of her tittered and _ooooh_ ed, she fumbled around for the offending device and switched it off without glancing at the screen, too distracted by the discussion of coursework deadlines to consider who might be calling her at noon on a wet November day. It wasn’t until Sylvia rapped on the classroom door and stepped inside without being invited, breathing heavily and looking harried, that Clara remembered Bonnie, and immediately grabbed her handbag and phone before the school secretary could so much as open her mouth.

“It’s…” Sylvia began, leaning in the doorframe as Clara shrugged her jacket on. “It’s your cousin,” she confirmed.

“Labour?” Clara asked somewhat unnecessarily, and the older woman nodded wheezily. 

The Year Eleven class whooped in second-hand excitement, and Clara laughed, heading towards the door and feeling buoyed by their enthusiasm. “Right then, you lot. I’ll be off — you’ve all dodged a bullet with this afternoon’s test. So, you’d best be _very_ nice for whoever covers the lesson.” 

“Send her our best, Miss,” Ruby called from near the back, and Clara turned, beaming at the teenagers fondly. 

“I will,” she assured them before striding out into the corridor and stopping in her tracks as she noticed Adrian approaching the stuffy classroom with a folder full of notes. “Are you taking over?” 

“Yep,” he offered her a tight, nervous smile as he spoke, then cast his gaze down to his feet. He’d been wary of her ever since their run-in in the staff room weeks before, but he was making an effort to be polite, which counted for something. “Would’ve had a free period, so I got roped in.” 

“I owe you for this,” Clara said gratefully. “We’re just discussing coursework deadlines, so if you could field some questions, that’d be great.” 

“Sure.” 

Clara nodded, satisfied he would be able to cope, and then followed the school secretary to Reception, switching her phone back on as she did so. “What did she say on the phone?” 

“ _She_ didn’t,” the older woman said, tartly. “ _He_ was talking away nineteen to the dozen; she’s been having contractions for a few hours and they’re about to head to the hospital. Said he would’ve called earlier but didn’t know how things were going to progress.” 

“Thank you,” Clara said, sincerely, scribbling her name in the signing-out book. “I’ll let everyone know what happens.” 

“Miss Oswald?” Sylvia asked, just as Clara was about to step outside into the downpour. “I hope things go well.” 

“Thank you,” Clara said again, before yanking the door opening and putting her umbrella up in a fruitless attempt to protect herself from the deluge. It wasn’t the most ideal weather to cross London in, and she would almost definitely look like a drowned rat when she arrived at the hospital, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to drip on their posh floors – if they didn’t like it, they could sod off. 

She knew she ought to text Bonnie or Will and reassure them that she was on the way, but attempting to use her phone would surely render it wet and useless, so she gritted her teeth and trudged towards the Tube with steely determination. It wasn’t until she was safely under the enormous awning of the station that she dared extract her phone from her pocket and fired off a quick message to both parents: 

_Sorry – phone was off. On way now. xx_

Descending the escalators, waiting for the train, and then sitting on it surrounded by cloying, damp air as it trundled across the capital seemed to take an eternity. In the tunnels, her phone lost signal, and each minute that passed was another minute that Clara spent fretting that Bonnie may have already given birth, or that something might have gone catastrophically wrong. When she finally disembarked at Paddington, she all but ran up the escalators, holding her phone aloft in a desperate attempt to find a signal. 

“Come on,” she muttered to herself as she paced along the endless corridors of the station. “Come on…” 

As she reached the surface, her phone finally connected to the network again, and a text from Will appeared in her inbox. 

_You’ve not missed anything except the epidural. Thought I was going to faint. We’re in Room 11, see you soon!_

Sighing in relief, Clara headed back out into the rain and kept her head down and her shoulders hunched against the monsoon until she arrived at the dimly familiar hospital building she had only previously seen on television. Bonnie had confessed to her the previous month that she would’ve been content to simply head to their local maternity ward, but Will had insisted upon the best, and, apparently, “the best” constituted the inordinately expensive and tremendously reputable Lindo Wing of St Mary’s Hospital, which looked far fancier than any building Clara had set foot in since graduating from university. 

 _Well,_ she thought to herself, _I guess Will_ is _paying, so it doesn’t matter. And, with a name like Elijah Augustus, the little one will fit right in with all the posh little Sirs and Earls and Marquises._

She pressed the buzzer beside the private entrance, and was greeted with a cheerful little jingle, followed by a starchily prim voice asking: 

“Name?” 

“Clara Oswald. My cousin is in labour here. Bonnie Ravenwood, Room 11.”

“Certainly, Miss Oswald. Come right in.” 

To Clara’s enormous relief, the doors swung open and she stepped inside, glad to be out of the rain and somewhere warmer and less humid than the Underground. Looking around at her lavish surroundings, she was surprised to find it resembled a hotel more than it did a hospital, with a polite-looking receptionist sat behind a low marble desk to one side of the cavernous entrance hall. 

“Welcome to the Lindo Wing, Miss Oswald. You can find Room 11 up the stairs and on your left,” the young woman said, gesturing to the sweeping staircase behind her, and Clara nodded in mute awe before ascending the stairs.

She was reassured to find that once upstairs, the hospital seemed more practical, with tidy, minimalist corridors set every few metres with enormous white doors. Room 11’s door featured a pane of glass frosted with swirling black flowers, and Clara knocked once for propriety’s sake before steeling herself and stepping inside. 

Bonnie was curled up on a surprisingly soft-looking bed, one of her hands gripping onto the bedsheets and the other clinging to Will like a lifeline. There was a low, pained moaning sound that seemed to be filling the room, and it took Clara a minute to realise her cousin was its source. 

“Hey,” Clara said, as brightly as she was able, and Bonnie immediately let go of Will’s hand and reached for her instead. “How’s it going?” 

“Ow,” Bonnie complained by way of explanation, as Clara stripped off her wet coat and approached the bed. “Very much _ow_.” 

“Do they know how much longer it’s going to be?” 

Will shrugged, looking a touch put out as Clara took Bonnie’s hand. “They think she’ll deliver by this evening. Although, with this rain… it’s hard to tell when that is.” 

Clara laughed. “Bon, you’re in the best place in here. Out of all the rain.” 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if your uterus was preparing to expel a small human,” Bonnie said.

“Good point,” Clara acquiesced. “Shouldn’t you have… I don’t know, a midwife with you all the time, considering how much you’re paying for the privilege of being here?” 

“Not this early on in proceedings,” Will said, with a stab at nonchalance. “And, besides, Bonnie was getting… _frustrated._ ” 

“What he means is that she was loitering and it was pissing me off, so I asked if she could just check on me periodically instead.” 

“Fair enough,” Clara chuckled. “So… we wait?” 

“We wait.”

 

* * *

 

As Will had predicted, the miserable autumn weather made it hard to mark the passage of time in Bonnie’s delivery room. Clara began to measure the hours by the spaces between her cousin’s contractions, and, when those periods of quiet tranquillity had shortened to only a few minutes long, there was a flurry of activity around the young mother-to-be. The midwife, previously banished from the room save for a brief appearance at twenty-minute intervals, returned, examined Bonnie, and then pulled on an apron and a pair of gloves with a decisive flourish.

“Time to push?” Bonnie asked weakly, the swearing and cursing of the preceding hours forgotten as exhaustion set in. “Yes?” 

“That’s right, my love,” the midwife said, cheerfully, and Bonnie groaned. “I know you’re tired, but you can absolutely do this. Be thankful you’ve had a nice short labour; some of my ladies have been in here for twenty hours or more before we’re at this stage.” 

Bonnie groaned again. “Bugger that.” 

The midwife laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, my darling. ‘Bugger that,’ indeed.” 

Under the professional’s gentle guidance, Bonnie struggled into an approximate sitting position, with Will gripping one of her hands and Clara the other as she spread her legs and bit back a shout as a contraction hit. 

“This’ll be over soon,” Clara murmured in a low, soothing voice, stroking her cousin’s hair back and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You can do this. Last little bit and then you’ll get to hold your little boy.” 

“Can’t,” Bonnie mumbled, sounding on the verge of tears. “Tired.” 

“You can,” Will told her, smiling reassuringly. “I promise you can, Bonnie; you-” 

“With your next contraction,” the midwife said in a pragmatic tone, cutting over Will’s encouragement. “I want you to push, Bonnie.” 

Bonnie, to Clara’s considerable surprise, nodded mutely by way of response, her face set in a grim expression, and a moment later another contraction gripped her. Neither Clara nor Will were prepared for the force with which Bonnie clung to their hands as she pushed, and both yet out a strangled yelp as she concentrated on following the midwife’s command. 

“That was brilliant!” the woman said, beaming up at the three of them. “Another one of those and we’ll have his head!” 

“He’d better be handsome,” Bonnie mumbled, panting from the exertion. “That’s all I’m saying on the matter.” 

“What about healthy?” Will asked, and Bonnie shot him a bemused look. 

“That’s a given, dipshit.” 

He rolled his eyes fondly, but, before he could speak, Bonnie experienced another contraction and she returned to clutching at his hand for dear life. 

“And that’s the head!” the midwife announced. “Nearly there now!” 

“You’re doing incredibly,” Clara murmured, giving Bonnie’s hand a quick squeeze. “So, so well.” 

“Thanks,” her cousin mumbled, closing her eyes and attempting to catch her breath. “God, I’ll be glad when this is over.” 

“Oh, they all say that,” the midwife looked up at her charge and smiled. “And once it is over, you’ll forget the pain because little one will make it all worth it.” 

“I’m never forgetting this,” Bonnie vowed. “I’m _never_ doing this again.” 

The midwife rolled her eyes but said nothing, and, as another contraction robbed Bonnie of her ability to speak, there was a moment of silence in the room, broken by a loud, insistent wail that made Clara’s heart soar. 

“There we go!” the midwife said happily, setting the newborn down on Bonnie’s chest, and Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she looked down at the tiny, purple, squalling infant. 

“Oh, my god,” she breathed. “Bon, he’s perfect.” 

Bonnie was crying, too, as she reached up with shaking hands to cradle the little boy to her chest. “He is,” she whispered, visibly awestruck. “Aren’t you, darling boy? Hello, you perfect thing, I’m your mummy, and I’ve been waiting to meet you.” 

Will reached down and stroked his son’s dark hair with one gentle fingertip. “He must be confused,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Bonnie’s temple. “Why there’s two of Mummy.” 

“Nooooo,” Clara said at once, shaking her head. “He’s too clever. Besides, I’m not important here; Will, you’d best introduce yourself to your little one.” 

“Oh yeah,” he grinned, leaning down and kissing the little boy’s forehead. “Hello, son.” 

“Elijah,” Bonnie said experimentally, rolling the name around in her mouth a few times as she looked down at him. “It fits him just right.” 

“A perfect name,” Will agreed. “For a perfect little boy.”

 

* * *

 

Amy arrived at the hospital with Rory later that evening, bearing the bag of neatly wrapped presents that Clara had stashed in her wardrobe the previous month, and another bag of less-neatly wrapped gifts that she and Rory had purchased, made, and, in some cases, baked over the previous week.

Clara met them downstairs, beaming from ear to ear as they stepped inside and immediately enveloped her in a group hug.

“Congratulations, Auntie Clara!” Amy enthused, and Clara rolled her eyes. “What’s that for? So, she’s not your sister. Big deal. You’re still Auntie Clara. It’s going to be much easier for little one to say than, ‘First Cousin Once Removed Clara.’” 

“Point,” Clara acquiesced with a laugh. “Wanna come and meet Elijah?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Sorry about this, Rory,” Clara apologised as she led the way upstairs. “You must’ve only just got off work.” 

“Don’t apologise,” he told her, looking tired, but happy. “Meeting your new nephew is definitely as good a reason as any to be in a hospital outside of my shift pattern.” 

Clara laughed, shepherding them into Bonnie’s room, where her cousin was sat up in bed with a freshly bathed Elijah nestled safely in her arms. Will was curled up in a chair in the corner, drifting in and out of sleep. 

“Hello,” Amy breathed in awed wonder. “Congratulations!” 

“Thank you,” Bonnie smiled, letting Elijah grip onto her fingertip. “Would you like to come and say hello?” 

“Always,” Amy stepped closer to the bed, holding up the bags of presents as an afterthought. “We brought gifts! Some of which are from Clara, and some of which are from me and are edible.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bonnie said shyly, but she looked pleased, nonetheless. “Pop them by the bed and I’ll open them while you have a cuddle.” 

“I get to hold him?” Amy asked reverently, eyes widening, and Rory chuckled.

“You’ll never prise him off her again,” he teased. “Fair warning.” 

“We could hardly prise him off Will,” Bonnie said, shooting the exhausted new father a fond glance. “And then we gave him to Clara and that was that: love at first snuggle.” 

“Can you blame me?” Clara asked, as Bonnie passed Elijah to Amy with the utmost care. “He is _extremely_ cute.” 

“Oh, he is,” Amy cooed, smiling down at the infant. “You’re a gorgeous little thing, aren’t you?” 

“Although,” Bonnie continued, as Rory edged past Amy and handed her the bags of gifts. “Unlike Will, Clara didn’t nearly drop him.” 

“I did not nearly drop him,” Will mumbled sleepily without opening his eyes, and the four adults jumped. “I was checking your reflexes.” 

“Sure, babe.” 

Amy stroked Elijah’s cheek with a fingertip, and he squirmed in her arms contentedly. “No escaping,” she cautioned, sinking into a chair and starting to make faces at him as Bonnie extracted a present from a gift bag, examined the wrapping, and then looked to Clara. 

“Guessing this one was from you.” 

“How on earth did you reach that conclusion?” 

Bonnie raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the immaculately taped gift wrap and carefully curled ribbon, and Clara laughed. 

“Yes, it’s from me,” she confirmed. “Carefully gender-neutral, as commanded.” 

“That’s my girl.”


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara attends a Bonfire Night party and is plagued by memories of John, then encounters an uninvited guest...

“OK,” Amy said in the kind of low, reasonable voice that signalled to Clara that her flatmate was, in fact, about to say something entirely unreasonable. She looked at Amy in her dressing table mirror, and tried not to look like she was dreading whatever her friend was about to say. “Please remind me why the hell you’re going to Brighton?” 

“Because Mickey and Martha are having a Bonfire Night party at her family’s place,” Clara said. 

“That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“I was invited,” Clara said, patiently. “And I thought it would be nice to go and catch up with people.” 

“Is _he_ going?” Amy asked, pragmatically. “Because, if he is, then this is a really, _really_ bad idea.” 

“Martha didn’t mention it, no,” Clara smoothed down her hair and then pulled a beanie hat on, adjusting it until it was at an appropriately jaunty angle. She shook her head experimentally, and, pleased that the beanie wouldn’t be falling off any time soon, got to her feet. “She said it was people from Radio TARDIS, and given that I’m still reasonably sure that everyone there thinks he’s a prick, it’s fairly unlikely that he’ll be in attendance.” 

“Famous last words,” Amy joked, but there was a hint of seriousness in her voice. Clara stifled a groan, and reached for her scarf instead of deigning that comment with an answer. “Don’t do anything or any _one_ stupid.” 

“I’ll be good, Mum,” Clara teased, and Amy poked her tongue out at her. “Promise.” 

“You’d better be.” 

Clara rolled her eyes and headed out to the hall before Amy could really get going with a lecture, shrugging on her warmest jacket and trying with a concerted effort not to think about last year’s Bonfire Night with John: the “accidental” spilled drink, the borrowed coat, him taking her scarf, and that heart-stopping moment when she thought he might kiss her. If only he had. If only they hadn’t been so blind to what was in front of them, they might have been able to enjoy more time together than they had. 

“Hey,” Amy said softly, noticing Clara’s distant expression. “It’s alright. You’re gonna have a great time.” 

“I hope so.” 

“Got your gloves?” 

“Yep,” Clara produced them from her pockets and waved them like mini flags. 

“Got your handbag?” 

“Yep,” Clara patted it, feeling more like a child going on a school trip than a grown-up going to a social event. 

“Got emergency cash?” 

“Amy,” Clara raised her eyebrows. “It’s a Bonfire Night party in Brighton, not a nightclub in Hackney.” 

“But-” 

“Before you ask: yes I have my rape alarm.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, yeah,” Clara gave her flatmate a serious look. “Better safe than sorry, eh?” 

“Be careful, OK?” Amy said, her eyes wide and concerned, and Clara stepped forwards to embrace her, touched that her friend was so concerned. “If he’s there, just… don’t lose your head, or do anything you might regret.” 

“He won’t be, but if he is, then I won’t. I promise.” 

“Text me to let me know you’ve arrived safely.” 

“Will do,” Clara gave her best friend a last squeeze then stepped outside into the grey autumn afternoon, starting to shiver at once and sticking her hands in her pockets. “See you later!” she called, turning to see Amy raise her hand in farewell, before setting out a rapid pace for the Tube and the first leg of her journey to the coast.

Keeping her fists clenched in her pockets rather than put her gloves on for the short walk, Clara tried to think positively about the impending social gathering. It would be good to see her colleagues — a part of her brain snidely asked, “ _former_ colleagues?” — again, although she couldn’t decide whether she was relieved or disappointed that John wouldn’t be there. She’d not seen him since that fateful day in September, and, while she thought of him little and often, she tried not to dwell on the subject lest the ache in her chest grow too all-consuming. 

Arriving at the Underground station, Clara entered into the blissful warmth of the ticket hall before descending the escalators, for once grateful of the sticky, warm humidity of London’s transport system. Taking her hands out of her pockets and examining them in an attempt to ascertain whether they’d turned purple yet or not, she almost collided with someone stalking past her with a takeaway coffee container, and their muttered curse followed her to the platform. 

_“Oops! I’m sorry, dearie.”_

Missy’s voice echoed in her ears as she remembered the warm feeling of hot chocolate spreading down her back, and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rushing, rattling sound of the approaching train consume her in a bid to avoid panicking. Missy wouldn’t be there. Missy was in figurative exile, and Clara would be free to enjoy her evening un-accosted. 

She tried not to think about the fact that she would also be spending the evening unaccompanied by John, instead focusing on stepping onto the mercifully warm train and taking a seat in the corner. 

“It’s going to be fine,” she mumbled to herself, aware she looked a touch insane. “It’s all going to be fine.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey!” Martha said warmly upon answering the door, immediately stepping forward and pulling Clara into a bone-crushing hug. “It’s been too long, it’s good to finally see you!” 

“You, too,” Clara replied, smiling in response to Martha’s open-hearted sincerity, before stepping away and fanning herself. “Kinda sweaty from the walk. Mind if I ditch a layer?”

“Sure,” Martha grinned and held her arms out. “Want me to take your coat?” 

_“Why are you holding your coat out?”_

_“Because I want you to wear it.”_

She shook her head fractionally, trying to clear the memories from her consciousness. “Urm,” she chewed her lip, suddenly unsure. “I might just undo it, actually, and ditch the scarf and hat until I’ve cooled off.” 

“Sure,” Martha said with a shrug, and Clara peeled off the offending knitwear before handing it over, extracting her phone from her pocket, and firing off a quick text to Amy as Martha hung the items on a nearby coat rack. “Everyone’s either in the kitchen or the back garden; we lit the bonfire about an hour ago just cos it’s a nightmare to get going some years and we didn’t wanna get caught out like last time. I’ve no idea where Mickey is, but he’ll be keen to see you; if he’s worth his salt then he’ll hopefully be keeping Maxie well away from anything hot and burny.” 

Clara laughed. “That would be good, yeah.” 

“If you bump into anyone you don’t know, they’re probably related to me. Watch out for my mum; she’s in a bit of a mood cos Dad’s just put a photo of himself and his new girlfriend on Facebook.” 

“I presume there’s some tension there, then?” 

“Oh, that’s an understatement,” Martha bared her teeth in a chagrined smile. “Honestly, the pair of them are exhausting.” 

“You can say that again,” a voice said from behind Martha, and Clara looked past her colleague to take in the sight of a tall, good-looking man who was leaning in the doorway and holding a bottle of beer. “You didn’t have to tell Dad that Annalise is about twenty years too young for him.” 

“You didn’t have to break it to Mum that Annalise was twenty years younger than Dad, though,” Martha shot back, raising an eyebrow at him in a silent challenge, and he raised his beer in a non-verbal accession to her trump card. “Ha. Checkmate.” 

“Yeah, alright,” he rolled his eyes fondly. “Aren’t you going to introduce us? Or are you too ashamed of your fam, sis?” 

“Don’t you go all London on me, bruv,” Martha looked from him to Clara and then back again, waving her hand as she spoke. “Clara, Leo; Leo, Clara. In case you hadn’t guessed, he’s my brother.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Leo said with an easy smile. “You work with Martha?”

“I used to,” Clara told him, unsure how to phrase it. “Well. Kinda still do. Kinda don’t. It’s… complicated.” 

She expected him to ask prying questions, or — entirely unselfishly — to recognise her, but he did neither. If he knew who she was, he didn’t say a word, and she felt a rush of gratitude for that. 

“Alright, Complicated Clara,” he teased. “Want a drink?” 

“Got anything warmer than beer?” she asked, as he turned and disappeared towards what she presumed was the kitchen, and she exchanged a look with Martha, who flapped her hands and encouraged her to follow him. “Aren’t you cold?” 

“I don’t feel it.” 

_“I don’t feel the cold.”_

_“It’s November, you prat.”_

“Not where beer is concerned, anyway,” Leo continued, turning to look at Clara, and she offered him a wan smile by way of response. “Food is cooking, but there’s nibbles until then. Drinks-wise, I can do…” he cast his eye over a selection of bottles arranged on the table, taking a sip of beer before saying in a practiced manner: “Wine, whiskey, beer, Coke, lemonade, juice, Baileys, or a hot beverage.” 

“You’ve really covered all your bases.” 

“Yep,” he said, popping the _p_. “I work in a bar, so, it’s kind of my thing.” 

“Fair,” Clara acquiesced, eyeing up the assembled beverages and trying to make a decision. Alcohol would be welcome, but so would a hot drink. “How about… Baileys hot chocolate?” 

Leo raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Damn, I like this idea. Baileys hot chocolate, coming right up. Wanna go out and mingle while I fire up Mum’s ludicrous coffee-maker? It might be a while; she has no idea how to work it and I keep having to clean it out.” 

“I feel your pain,” Clara said, sticking her hands in her pockets and heading out of the back door into an enormous, immaculate garden. There was a dimly lit patio directly beside the house, then a path that twisted downhill past shadowy trees and bushes she couldn’t make out, at the end of which — she assumed, anyway — was the soft glow of a bonfire and the faint sound of voices chatting. “Damn.”

“Hey!” a voice enthused from somewhere in the gloom, and Mickey stepped out of a patch of shadow with Maxie on his hip, beaming from ear to ear. “Long time, no see, Clara.” 

“Hey, Mickey,” she smiled. “It really has been. Hey, little guy.”

As had happened the previous year, Maxie only giggled and buried his face in his father’s shoulder, and Clara laughed, reaching over and ruffling his hair. 

“He’s cute.” 

“Isn’t he just?” Mickey smiled at the little boy fondly, then used his free arm to gesture further down the garden. “In case the flickering wasn’t a big enough clue, the bonfire’s that way. Have you got a drink?”

“Leo’s making me one.” 

“Good,” Mickey nodded before lapsing into silence, his expression becoming abruptly concerned. “Clara, look… there’s something I need to-” 

“Ach, come on, man,” a horribly familiar Scottish voice called through the darkness. “I need food, Mickey! I’m wasting away here!” 

There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path and then there he was, wrapped up in the same jacket he had loaned her the year before, and grinning like he hadn’t a care in the world. Clara wasn’t sure whether this fact meant that she wanted to punch him or kiss him.

_“I look like an idiot.”_

_“I would personally argue that you look rather cute.”_

“When’s…” he fell silent as he caught sight of her, and she forced herself to keep her breathing slow and even, trying not to hyperventilate. “Oh… hi.” 

“Hello,” she said in the calmest tone she could manage, resolving in that instant to get the hell out of the situation before she acted upon either of her earlier impulses. “Mickey, I’m gonna go get that drink.”

She bolted before he could reply, heading inside and leaning against the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to be sick. 

_“My favourite tiny English teacher.”_

“Hey,” Leo said from somewhere to her left, but his voice sounded far away and strange. “Clara?” 

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry in front of strangers. John was here. He was _here_ ; he’d obviously been invited and he’d showed up and now she would have to act like everything was fine when it patently wasn’t. He seemed… OK. That was what hurt her the most; he’d seemed perfectly casual when he saw her. Had he known she was coming? Had Martha set them up?

“Clara,” Leo said again, then seemed to read her mind. “Shit, you’ve seen him, haven’t you?” 

She nodded.

“He turned up. Got the details out of someone and gate-crashed. I’m sorry.” 

“Can I…” she opened her eyes, looking down at the marble worktop and forcing herself to focus on its patterns to try and ground herself. “Can I have that hot chocolate please? And a nip of whiskey? Kinda need some Dutch courage right now.” 

“Sure,” Leo said easily, and a moment later a mug of steaming, aromatic liquid appeared in her field of vision, with a novelty plastic shot glass beside it. Clara reached down and necked the shot, then took a long gulp of hot chocolate and hummed appreciatively. “How is it?”

“Absolutely ideal,” Clara informed him, looking up and offering him a wavering smile. “Can you just… keep the Baileys hot chocolates coming, yeah?” 

“Course,” he grinned, looking pleased that she liked it. “Might see if anyone else wants one, too.” 

“Well, you can do that in a minute,” Martha told him tartly, striding into the kitchen and looking at Clara with an apologetic grimace. “I’m assuming from your expression that you know he’s here.”

“Yeah.” 

“Sorry,” Martha said more gently, sighing deeply. “We tried to turn him away, we really did, but he was insistent.” 

“I know, it’s OK. I guess he works with you, he has a right to be here. More of a right than me.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Martha said at once. “Look, we’re going to start the fireworks in a few, if you wanna head outside. That’ll take your mind off it, maybe.”

“Ah, sure,” Clara mumbled, dreading the thought of heading back into the garden and potentially bumping into John again. Wrapping her gloved hands around her mug, she took another sip, beginning to feel the alcohol work its way through her system and suddenly realising she’d not eaten since lunchtime. She decided she didn’t care and resolved to eat an extra burger after the fireworks. She headed back outside, relieved to find the upper area of the garden mercifully devoid of guests. 

“Wait up,” Leo called, jogging along the path to catch up with her, and she smiled as he fell into step at her side, the two of them heading for the golden glow of the bonfire. “How’s the drink?” 

“So good,” she confessed, taking another gulp. “Haven’t had this in years.” 

“Might have to put it on the menu at the bar,” he grinned. “All credit to you. Could even name it after you, if you fancy it. ‘Clara’s Hot Chocolate.’”

“I like this idea. I like this idea a lot.” 

They rounded a shrub and found themselves in the warm glow of the bonfire, the assembled guests grouped into twos or threes of the open space and talking amongst themselves. All except John, who was stood by himself, leaning against a fence panel and looking around at his colleagues with something akin to self-pity, although Clara tried not to dwell on that thought. 

Leo cast a quick glance across to where John was stood before positioning himself and Clara on the opposite side of the fire, and she felt a rush of gratitude for the gesture. 

“Thanks,” she mumbled, before realising how cold it was now that she’d panic-sweated and ditched her knitwear, and starting to shiver. “Do I have time to get my-” 

The first firework exploded above them, and by way of response, Leo laughed, stepping closer to her and put a companionable arm around her waist. “No,” he said with a shrug. “But we can share body heat at least.”

She smiled and edged closer to him still, taking another sip of her drink and feeling herself warm up a little. 

 _“I’m keeping you warm.”_  

Another firework burst into a swathe of red sparks against the night sky, and the guests _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed _,_ mesmerised by the bright colours _._ From across the fire, Clara noticed John pushing away from his leaning position, and something about his body language signalled trouble. 

 _“I’m in love with you, and I have been since that bloody night at the fireworks party!”_  

He was pushing past other guests, circling the bonfire and approaching them with a murderous expression. 

_“More fool me.”_

There was a whistling noise then a _bang_ as another firework went off, but neither John nor Clara were paying the blindest bit of attention to the display. He was almost upon them now, and Clara couldn’t breathe, and- 

_“Oh, Clara Oswald. My Impossible Girl.”_

She understood, abruptly, why he looked so thunderous, and he couldn’t really think that- 

_“I love you, and I’m bloody terrified of losing you.”_

“What do you think you’re playing at?” John snarled, and Clara was unsure whether he was addressing her or Leo until he jabbed the younger man in the chest forcefully. “Leave her alone!” 

“John, he’s not…”

“Mate, I’m not…” 

_“Since when?”_

“She’s a vulnerable individual and she doesn’t need to be harassed by the likes of you!” 

_“The fireworks.”_

Everyone was staring at them now, and it was too much for her to take in: John was here, and he was jealous, and she _really_ couldn’t breathe now. Turning on her heel, Clara twisted away from Leo, running back towards the house and away from the group as explosion after explosion lit up the scene in red, gold, and green; Leo and John stood side by side, their argument forgotten as they looked after her in desperation. 

There was another, much louder _bang_ , and Clara flinched reflexively, her body weight shifting and her feet tripping over themselves. 

The last things she was aware of were John’s voice calling her name, and the gravel of the path rushing up to meet her.


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of their unexpected reunion, John patches Clara up and they discuss their relationship.

“Clara?”

The voice seemed far-off and reassuringly familiar, yet she couldn’t quite place it. The inability to attribute it to a face should have been distressing, yet somehow wasn’t.   

“Clara!” 

 _John,_ she realised abruptly. It was John; John was here, although she couldn’t recall where “here” was. Bed? Possibly? Where was he? Why wasn’t he in bed with her? 

“It’s OK, you’re going to be fine. Martha, can you get something to patch her up with?” 

She made a soft sound of contentment and stirred slightly, feeling whatever she was lying on shift under her weight. It wasn’t as soft as she expected, and as she lifted her hand to her face she heard it crunch, and it was then that she remembered the gravel, and the fireworks, and John’s surprise appearance. She opened her eyes in the darkness, trying to appraise which bits of her hurt, and then struggled into a sitting position, noticing that John was crouched on the path beside her, his face a mask of concern. 

“Hey,” he said with more warmth than she was expecting. “It’s OK, don’t try to move too much. Martha’s getting a first aid kit.” 

“Piss off,” she mumbled, ignoring his suggestion and getting to her feet before immediately regretting that decision, staggering a little and almost falling again as the blood rushed to her head. John reacted faster than she could, catching hold of her upper arms to try and support her, but she shoved him away with as much force as she could muster, scowling at him darkly and trying to ignore the stinging in her knees. “Really. Fuck off, John.” 

“Clara, I’m just… you fell, you’re hurt.” 

“Yeah, and the reason I fell is staring me in the face, so excuse me for not being overly grateful. What the hell are you doing here, John?” 

“I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Well, I’m surprised,” Clara looked down at her legs, discovering her tights had ripped and there were pieces of gravel embedded in her knees, which were bleeding sluggishly. At least her gloves had proved more robust, leaving her hands sore from the impact, but otherwise unscathed. “So, you can leave now.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re leaving, because it’s that or I punch you in the face. Which would you prefer?” 

John grimaced, hesitating for a moment before confessing in a gruff voice that she knew was intended to try and conceal his emotions: “I probably deserve the punch in the face, don’t I?” 

“Very much so.” 

“Can I at least help you back to the house? Your knees need cleaning up and dressing and I don’t see any water sources nearby that aren’t iced over, so the bathroom would be a good plan.” 

“It’s OK, mate,” another voice chimed in, and Clara turned to see Leo, stood a short distance away with his hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance. “It’s my mum’s place, I can take her.” 

Clara noticed the look that John was giving the younger man. “I can do it,” he insisted. “I need to speak to Clara about something.”

“You’ve already caused enough trouble though, John,” Leo said bluntly. “I don’t want you doing any more damage.” 

John threw out his chest a little and drew himself up to his full height in what Clara recognised as a pre-fight display of machismo, and she sighed, knowing she needed to step in and intervene before the two men descending into an all-out brawl. “It’s fine, Leo,” she sighed. “John can take me. Thanks, though.” 

“Just…” Leo dithered for a moment. “Be careful, OK?” 

Clara knew that he wasn’t talking about her knees or her fall or anything else, but she nodded nonetheless before allowing John to put an arm around her shoulders, and fought the urge to shudder and forcibly recoil. The gesture felt unspeakably uncomfortable; it was somehow both familiar and not, and she took a deep breath in an attempt to stop herself from crying as John allowed her to lean on him and limp up to the house. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as they reached the patio. “For…” 

“Can we wait until we’re inside?” Clara asked, resigning herself to the conversation that John seemed so keen on instigating. “Please? I don’t want to become any more of a public spectacle than is really necessary.” 

“Sure,” he acquiesced, helping her inside and encountering Martha, who was holding a first aid kit and gaping at them in unabashed shock. “Right,” John said, looking sheepish. “It’s ah… an uneasy truce. Can we use your bathroom? Clara needs-” 

“ _She_ can,” Martha snapped, her expression furious. “You… well, it’s you I’m concerned about. She’s wounded, sure, but do try not to say anything particularly idiotic, because I don’t want to have to pick pieces of you out of the tiles, or the plughole, or the shower curtain.” 

“Excuse me,” John said with mock offence. “Why do you assume it would be me getting hurt?” 

“Because I fully anticipate that the anger of your ex-girlfriend is more than enough to inflict serious damage on you.” 

“Fair point,” he grimaced guiltily and took the first aid kit from her hands. “Thanks for this.”

“Do you actually know how to use it?”

“The sticky things go over the holes in your skin,” he shot back in a deliberately slow, patronising tone, and Martha rolled her eyes in exasperation. “It’ll be fine. If you hear shouting-” 

“If you hear shouting, do ignore it and let me at least seriously injure him before intervening,” Clara implored Martha, who nodded curtly and then headed back outside. Clara looked to John, whose eyes were wide with hurt, and she raised her eyebrows in a chagrined manner. “Why are you surprised I’m angry?” 

“I’m not, I just didn’t expect you to be quite so… violent.” 

“OK, one: I live with Amy Pond, who was all for coming over and breaking your legs with a crowbar, and two: you are absolutely, categorically one of the biggest pricks I have ever met, and that’s saying something. You’re lucky my knees are out of action, or they’d be connecting with your balls round about now.”

John winced, helping Clara towards the downstairs bathroom as though concerned she might regain use of her knees and decide to put her threat into action. “Fair point,” he concurred. “Absolutely fair point.” 

“Thank you.” 

Reaching the small room, Clara closed the toilet lid and sank onto it in relief, and John set the first aid kit down beside the sink, opening it and pawing through it until he located a pair of tweezers. 

“This might hurt,” he cautioned, kneeling in front of Clara and peeling back the shredded, blood-stained fabric of her tights from her ruined knees. 

“More than you dumping me?” she asked cattily, and he visibly flinched. 

“Clara…”

“More than you breaking my heart?” she continued, knowing she was being petty, but hardly caring. “More than you throwing me aside like a toy you got bored of?” 

“Clara, I…” 

“More than you gate-crashing tonight and then trying to start something with Leo, who was just trying to be kind?” 

“It bothered me,” he admitted, quietly. “OK? It bothered me to see you with another man.” 

“Why?” she asked, gritting her teeth as he dropped his gaze to her knees and removed the first piece of gravel with care. “ _You_ dumped _me._ And besides, it’s not like we were snogging.” 

John winced, then coughed in an attempt to disguise the motion. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, picking out another stone. “It just did.” 

“Right.” 

“I just… I don’t like the thought of you with anyone else.” 

“Oh, good,” Clara deadpanned. “I’ll just spend the rest of my life as a nun, how about that?” 

“That’s not what I want.” 

“Well, apparently it is.” 

“No,” he said more quietly, visibly cowed by the force of her anger, and he looked up at her and met her gaze as he confessed: “I want you back.” 

Clara’s heart stopped in that instant, as she was confronted with the words she had wanted to hear for so long. 

“What?” she asked perfectly calmly, unable to process what she was hearing. “What did you say?” 

“I said I want you back.” 

Clara shook her head. He couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t really be serious; not after everything he said and how callously he had ended things. 

“No,” she murmured, closing her eyes to conceal the tears that had welled up. Only when she had regained her composure did she open her eyes and look back at him. “No, you don’t.” 

“I do,” he sighed, setting down the tweezers and twisting his hands together anxiously as he spoke. “I just… I was wrong to do what I did.” 

“Could you…” she stammered, actually unsure which incident he was referring to. “Could you be more specific?” 

“Breaking things off with you was just… utterly wrong of me. Clara, I’m still in love with you, and I made a mistake in ending things, not only how I did, but the fact I did it at all.” 

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, you did.” 

“I just… seeing you with Leo…” 

Clara’s anger flared without warning and she all but snarled at him as she felt contempt rise in her chest. “You really think he’s my type, John? You really think I’m interested in pretty young men?” 

“I…” 

“God, you’re such a _man_. You don’t want me back at all, do you? You just want to mark your territory and make sure that I can’t be with anyone else. You hate the idea of it; don’t deny it.” 

“Of course I do.” 

She laughed harshly. “Right. So, it took seeing me with Leo for you to realise that you never wanted me to move on, and so here you are, pretending that you give a shit to make sure that I stay in your thrall forever. That’s not love, John. That’s control. Control and covetousness” 

“Clara, I… you don’t understand; it wasn’t seeing him that made me realise! I knew…” 

“What? Did it happen the first time you got horny and you realised you missed the sex? Or did you work out that you craved my cooking? Or was it something else?”

“Clara, for god’s sake! I love you and I always will and god knows, OK, _god knows_ that scares me, but I do, and I realised this three weeks ago and ever since then I’ve been trying to think of ways to win you back and make it up to you.” 

“Right. And gate-crashing a party and trying to start a fight with someone who was just being kind to me is really going to win me over.” 

“I admit it, I messed up.” 

“No kidding.” 

“I mean it,” he said sincerely. “I love you more than you know, and these weeks apart have been torture.” 

“Should probably have thought of that before you dumped me, shouldn’t you?” 

John sighed wearily. “I know you’re angry-” 

“Understatement of the year.” 

“And I know you’re hurt, but please… will you just… give me a chance? Let me try and make things up to you, no matter how slowly. You don’t even have to take me back, if that’s not what you want then fine, but it would be nice to be friends at least. We could go for coffee, just like old times.” 

The idea was tempting. The thought of sitting in a warm, cosy café with John and discussing their lives once again made Clara’s heart ache at the mere idea of it, and she clenched her fists in her lap, trying to maintain her composure. She knew what it would lead to, of course. First it would be coffee, then it would be dinner at his, and before she knew it she would be back with him and her pain and anger would have no outlet other than John himself, and she would drive him away with her spite. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted unwillingly, hating how uncertain and vulnerable she sounded. “I just… John, I need time, OK? I need to be angry for a little while, and I need to stop hurting.” 

“Well, how…” 

“If you ask me how long that will take then so help me, god, I will reset my anger-o-meter.”

John’s mouth twisted into a nervous smile. “Sorry.” 

“I know you are.” 

“No, Clara, I really am. I made so many mistakes and I focused on everything other than you and what you were telling me. I should never have listened to the press. I should never have cared about anyone’s opinion other than yours.” 

“And maybe Amy’s.” 

“And maybe’s Amy’s,” he agreed with a quick grin. “I just… I’m sorry for what I did.” He leant forwards and pressed his lips to her clasped hands, and while the gesture was intended to be tender, Clara found herself giggling.

“Sorry,” she managed, when he looked up at her with confusion. “Just, I’ve never had anyone literally begging on their knees for me to take them back before. It’s… novel.” 

John chuckled, and then bowed his head, reaching for the tweezers and turning his attention back to her knees. He removed an especially large stone with a flourish, and Clara bit back a curse. “Glad to be of assistance.” 

“As you should be.” 

“Clara…” he looked up at her again, hand hovering over her injuries as he met her gaze with absolute solemnity. “I’ll wait for you, OK? However long you need, however long it takes… just know I’ll be there at the end of it.” 

Clara smiled faintly, reaching over and ruffling his hair. “I know,” she told him. “Thank you.”


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving home bloodied and limping, Clara explains the night's events to a less than impressed Amy...

By the time Clara arrived home and limped over the threshold of her flat, it was almost 11 p.m. and her knees had started to bleed again through the plasters that John had applied earlier in the evening. Tired, sore, and still somewhat confused by the night’s turn of events, she wanted nothing more than to re-dress her knees, climb into bed, and sleep soundly until her alarm, but she realised that this wish would be impossible when Amy raced out of the lounge and flung her arms around her with even more aplomb than usual. 

“I was _worried,_ ” her flatmate said in a shrill, accusatory tone, but the gravitas of her irritation was countered by the fact she was pressing relieved kisses to Clara’s hair at frequent intervals. “I got your arrival text and then you digitally vanished, and… dammit, Oswald, you scared me. Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Amy pulled back and rested her hands on Clara’s shoulders, looking her up and down critically and gasping when she noticed her flatmate’s bloodied knees and ripped tights. 

“It’s fine,” Clara said quickly, keen to defuse the situation. “Really, I just tripped.” 

“On what?!” Amy asked, looking aghast. “Those look nasty. Go and sit down and I’ll antiseptic them.” 

“That’s not a verb,” Clara argued, weakly, shrugging off her coat and hanging it up, attempting to downplay how sore her knees felt. “They’re fine, really.” 

“Clara, they’re not fine,” Amy raised an eyebrow. “Besides, you’ll bleed all over everything if you don’t put on nice clean plasters. I’m engaged to a nurse, remember? I know some things about first aid. Go. Sit.” 

“Fine,” Clara rolled her eyes and kicked off her ankle boots, heading into the lounge and perching obediently on the edge of the sofa. There was a half-full tub of Pringles on the coffee table, and she helped herself to several as she waited for Amy to return with medical supplies. 

“Here we go,” her friend said a few minutes later, backing into the lounge with a tray, on which was arranged a first aid kit, a flannel, and a basin of something steaming that Clara presumed was warm water. “Let Nurse Amy see to your wounds, Miss Oswald.” 

Clara snorted. “Kind of gutted you aren’t in a uniform, not gonna lie.” 

“Kinky,” Amy winked, setting the tray down and looking down at her tiny flatmate with a stern look. “Right. Tights off.” 

“God, you could buy me a drink first, you know,” Clara teased, but Amy only rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Tights coming off. Plasters, too?” 

“Plasters, too.” 

Clara sighed and began to peel them off with difficulty, wincing as the ripped edges of the fabric were pulled stickily away from her skin. Setting the ruined hosiery aside, she turned her attention to the plasters John had applied with such care, and gritting her teeth, she ripped off first one and then the other with only very minor cursing, chucking the two offending items towards her tights and resolving to deposit the lot in the bin once Amy was done playing nurse. 

“Bloody hell,” Amy wrinkled her nose as she looked down at the messy, angry-looking gouges in Clara’s knees. “You know, normally you don’t cock up this badly unless you’ve been drinking.” 

“I mean,” Clara began, chewing her lip. “I’d had a Baileys hot chocolate.” 

“You mess,” her flatmate said fondly, dipping a flannel into the basin and lifting up both of Clara’s feet and resting them on the coffee table. “What did you land on? These look sore.” 

“Gravel.” 

“Ouch,” Amy grimaced, and began gently dabbing at the wounds with a surprising amount of care. “Wanna tell me what happened?” 

“Nothing happened,” Clara lied, watching as the dried blood was wiped away. “I just fell.” 

“Bullshit. You’re not one for being clumsy, Oswald.” 

“Well, maybe I was tonight.” 

“Ooh, the touchiness would indicate otherwise.” 

“Amy,” Clara sighed, both wanting and not wanting to discuss the subject with her friend. “I…” 

Her flatmate affixed her with a distinctly bemused expression; the kind that clearly indicated that Amy knew full well she was lying.

“Fine,” Clara acquiesced, unwillingly. “John was there.” 

“What?!” Amy yelped, almost dropping her flannel in shock, her face contorting into a mask of fury. “What the fuck was he doing there? They actually invited him, after all the shit he’s caused?”

“He wasn’t invited,” Clara said calmly. “He turned up unannounced.” 

“And they let him in?” 

“He charmed his way in. He got weird because I was talking to Martha’s brother, and I got in a state and tried to get out of there, but I tripped.” 

“What a prick,” Amy muttered sourly, resuming her cleaning of Clara’s cuts. “I hope you told him where to get off.” 

“He, ah…” Clara looked down at her lap. “He helped me back to the house and cleaned up my knees, actually.” 

“He _what_?”

“I mean, it _was_ basically his fault. He was being kind.” 

“Well, fat lot of good his efforts did,” Amy said sourly, placing the flannel aside and reaching for a tube of antiseptic, gesturing to Clara’s ruined knees with her free hand. “Look at them.” 

“To be fair, that’s after hobbling around several train and Tube stations. They were fine when I left Martha’s.” 

“Hmmph,” Amy muttered by way of response, unscrewing the cap, and Clara rolled her eyes. “Still. Did he say anything while he was playing doctor?” 

“He, ah,” Clara felt herself blush, and said in a rush: “He wants me back.” 

Amy froze, her nursing duties forgotten. “What?”

“He said he wants me back,” she said, more slowly. “And that he’s sorry, and that he’s still in love with me.” 

“And you… believed that?” 

“I mean, he was literally kneeling in front of me and grovelling, Amy.” 

“I bet he was.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Did you fuck him?” 

“ _What_?” Clara looked up, stung by the accusation. “How… no! Why would you even think that?! In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m bleeding out of both legs, it’s not exactly a sexy set-up, is it?” 

“Well, that’s the only reason I can think of that you’d be acting so stupid right now. You actually fell for him saying all that rubbish?” 

“Amy, you weren’t there. You didn’t talk to him. He meant it, I know he did.” 

“No, he wanted you to believe he means it so that he can get back with you and take you for a ride. Again.”

“No, he meant it,” Clara snapped. “OK? I know him, Amy. I understand him. He looked me in the eyes and told me he was sorry and, yes, I believed him. And do you know what I did? I told him I needed time to think. I told him I needed time to stop being angry at him and stop being upset that he ended things, and he agreed, and then I had something to eat and came home. The end.”

“You… held out?” 

“Of course I held out,” Clara sighed, her anger waning as rapidly as it had flared up. “I know what I’m like when I’m like this. Taking him back would be a nightmare, not least because I’d just be snappy and bitchy and awful to him, and it wouldn’t be his fault.” 

“It kinda would,” Amy wrinkled her nose, dabbing antiseptic onto Clara’s legs. “So…” 

“Ow,” Clara complained, the cream stinging as it soaked in. “I just… I need time to think.”

“And then you’re going to take him back?” 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“I don’t know,” Amy admitted, setting aside the tube of cream and blowing softly on Clara’s knees in an attempt to make them dry faster. “He made you happy, once. But he broke your heart, too.” 

“I know,” Clara said, raising her hand to her mouth and worrying at a hangnail with her teeth. “I’m scared to try, but I just… I think I have to. I think I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but you’ve gotta consider: would that regret be more or less than the regret you would feel if you got back together and it all went spectacularly south again?” 

“I don’t know,” Clara shrugged. “I guess I won’t know if I don’t try, though. Because I can’t carry on like this, Amy. It’s killing me not being able to just talk to him or have a laugh with him or just even _be_ with him. I miss just sitting together in the studio and coming up with songs for the show. I miss sleeping beside him. I miss his stupid face and his ridiculous eyebrows and his terrible taste in clothes. I miss being happy.” 

“I miss _seeing_ you happy.” 

“I know you do,” Clara reached over and took Amy’s hand, squeezing it gratefully. “Would you be mad if I got back with him?”

“I mean, I’d have to resist the urge to break his legs in several places, but other than that…”

“ _Amy_.” 

“Sorry. I don’t know. If he was nice to you, and marginally less paranoid than he was before, then I think I’d be OK. But if not… I don’t know. If he started messing you around again, then I’d have to intervene in quite a major way. Ideally violently – and vengefully.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Clara offered her a tight smile, before something occurred to her. “God, my dad would never forgive me. He was still so angry after Easter, and then September happened and I got dumped, and if I take John back, he’s going to be _furious_ …” 

“Hey,” Amy said gently, raising an eyebrow. “Now who’s the one worrying about what other people think?” 

“But my dad isn’t the media,” Clara mumbled. “My dad actually gives a shit. What if John wanted to marry me and my dad said no?” 

“Then your dad could frankly piss off. It’s not the 1950s and John doesn’t need his permission.” 

“His blessing would be nice, though.”

“Yes,” Amy reasoned. “But if your dad can see you’re genuinely happy, then I don’t see why that would be a problem.” 

Clara, to her considerable consternation, burst into tears. “I just don’t know, Amy. I want him back, but I’m terrified he’s going to change his mind again.” 

“It’s OK,” her flatmate said, bundling Clara into her arms and holding her tight. “You’ve got time to work things out. It’s not like you’ve _already_ taken him back; you’ve got time to get your head together and work out what you want.” 

Clara sobbed, clinging to her best friend like a lifeline as she realised the truth of the matter. “I want _him_.” 

“I know,” Amy soothed, stroking Clara’s hair and kissing her forehead gently. “I know you do, but you also want – you need – to get your head together, yeah? So, that’s the first step. Just thinking about this all in a rational manner, working through your anger, and making sure that, when you reunite, you aren’t going to punch his lights out.” 

“But…” 

“Clara, you can do this. You can work things out. Take up boxing or something physical that you can get your anger out via, and have several good cries if you need to. Focus on working towards that goal of being a better kind of person; someone that John can take back without fearing for his life.” 

“I’m already a great person,” Clara sniffled, feigning affront. “Just FYI.” 

“Yes, you are, but you’re also an angry person, and John shouldn’t have to deal with that.” 

“I guess.” 

“No, no guessing. He shouldn’t, and you know that. If you go in there all guns blazing and get all spiteful and petty, things _will_ end badly, and it’ll be your own fault. And then I will be totally unsympathetic, and you will be on your own.” 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Amy deadpanned, pulling back from Clara and affixing her with a pragmatic look. “Now, your knees need bandaging before you bleed all over the flat and your bed, and then you need hot chocolate – alcohol-free this time – and then you need to go to bed.” 

“If you say so, Mum.” 

“Don’t be cheeky,” Amy said sternly, reaching for a gauze pad and a long, immaculately rolled white bandage. “Or you’ll be going to bed with _no_ hot chocolate.”

“Ooh, I’m _scared_.” 

“Should be,” Amy poked her tongue out at her flatmate, placing the gauze over the deep grazes in Clara’s knee and then starting to wind the bandage round and round in a slow, methodical manner. When she was done, she tucked the loose end in and smiled proudly, looking pleased with her efforts. “How’s that?” 

Clara attempted to bend her knee, and found that Amy’s diligent wound-dressing skills had failed to take into account that she would, at some point, need to do things like stand up, sit, or walk, or indeed move her leg in any manner. “Urm,” she began, nervously. “Not to sound critical or anything, but I can’t bend my leg.” 

“You are _so_ demanding.”

“It’s not demanding to want to be able to move!” 

Amy grabbed the other gauze and bandage before Clara could move out of range and set to work attempting to bandage the other knee in a similar fashion. 

“Hey!” Clara protested, as Amy pulled her to her feet with a laugh. “You’re mean, I honestly can’t do anything like this.” 

“You can so.”

“Like what?” 

“I dunno, walk like an Egyptian?” Amy held up her arms, mummy-style, and Clara groaned. 

“Amelia Pond, I swear to god, if you get that bloody song in my head...” 

“Alright, alright,” Amy grumbled, crouching down and starting to unwind her neat handiwork. “I’ll make some adjustments.” 

“Thank you, Nurse Pond.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Oh, and Amy?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You are _so_ wearing a nurse’s outfit to your hen do. Albeit one with a warning sign.”


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwhelmed by planning Amy's wedding, Clara breaks down and phones her dad to discuss John.

“Right,” Amy narrowed her eyes at Clara and Rory from across the table. Or, rather, what could be seen of the table, since the majority of it was strewn with paperwork, wedding magazines, mood boards, colour swatches, ring binders, and an iPad, which was scrolling automatically through Amy’s religiously curated wedding Pinterest album. “Things are looking good.” 

“Good, because I need a drink,” Clara muttered, putting her head in her hands and groaning. “Amy, we’ve been here for _four hours_.” 

“Yes, and your point is?” 

“That you’re starting to scare me.” 

“I second that,” Rory admitted in a tremulous voice, then caught sight of Amy’s glare and added: “But don’t get me wrong, the organisation is impressive. You’ve really thought of everything.” 

“Of course I have. I’ve been planning this since I was eight years old.” 

“Amy,” Clara raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell men things like that. They tend to get freaked out.” 

“One, I’m already engaged to Rory, he can’t back out now — not least because we’ve already paid for everything. Two, he knows: he was my stand-in groom for all my fake weddings until he finally asked me out, then he just blushed a lot whenever I mentioned it.” 

Rory shot Clara a chagrined look. “She’s right.” 

“Well,” Clara blinked in stupefaction, reassured by how he was taking it all in his stride. “Who wants a cup of tea?” 

“Ooh, please,” Amy said at once. “Rory, I think you’re free to go watch the football if you want.” 

“ _Yesssss_ ,” he whooped, getting to his feet and bolting from the room before Amy could change her mind. “Oh, and yes, please, to tea!” he called from the lounge. 

Clara rolled her eyes fondly and stood, filling the kettle and then flicking it on as Amy collected together the primary information relating to Rory’s side of the day — which admittedly was not a great deal — and carefully stowed it back in its folder.

“We only really need to talk about flowers, shoes, dresses, hair, and makeup,” Amy mused, running a finger down her itemised list. “Which shouldn’t take too long.” 

“It’s OK,” Clara turned and smiled reassuringly at her flatmate as she retrieved three mugs and dropped a teabag in each. “This is the fun stuff, anyway.” 

Amy grinned, reaching for her iPad and skimming through her emails. “Exactly.” 

The kettle boiled and Clara finished making the tea, taking one mug in to Rory, who was browsing through Facebook on his phone as various on-screen football pundits discussed the merits and weaknesses of each team’s players. “Not one for all the punditry?” 

“Nah,” he made a face. “More of an action man myself.” 

Clara resisted the urge to snort, amused by the image of Rory as anything other than soft, sweet, and passive. “Fair enough,” she said in the most neutral tone she could manage. “Enjoy the match.” 

“Enjoy planning,” he replied, then looked up at her properly and said in a low voice. “And thank you for… well, planning the planning. All those folders and lists… we’d have been lost without your help.” 

“You’re welcome,” Clara said, feeling a touch embarrassed. “I really don’t mind. I like organising; control freak, remember?” 

“You’re not a control freak,” he told her. “It’s really kind of you, and you’ve helped us out a lot.” 

Looking away, Clara felt her cheeks burn. “It’s my pleasure,” she mumbled, heading back to the kitchen before he could say anything else, and offering Amy a bright smile. “Right! Planning, yeah?” 

“You look… weird.” 

“Not weird. Just… Rory was being all nice and grateful and…”

“Good, because I keep meaning to say,” Amy frowned to herself then looked up from the magazine she was skimming through, affixing Clara with a look of gratitude. “Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to-” 

“I do. Because helping me plan this, especially after Danny… I know that was hard for you. And after John did what he did; you didn’t need to keep helping. But you did.” 

“I don’t mind,” Clara blurted. “It’s nice to have a distraction, really. Not to mention nice to not have to worry about things other than colours and place settings and seasonal flowers. Makes a change from having to stress about marking.” 

“But-” 

“Incidentally,” Clara continued in an upbeat tone, determined not to let Amy get fawning and sentimental, lest she burst into tears by way of response. “Why did you pick December? Seasonal summer flowers would be _so_ much easier.” 

Sensing that her flatmate didn’t want to focus too much on the issue, Amy let out a long breath. “Because I’m awkward,” she teased, and Clara felt a surge of relief that the issue had been dropped. “Mainly.” 

“I see that.” 

“Besides, the bouquet is done,” Amy reminded her, holding up the piece of cardboard onto which they’d pasted cut-out photographs of different blooms, “and ordered. Seasonally and locally and free-range and organic and vegan and all that jazz.”

“You’re terrible.” 

“At least I hope it’s vegan,” Amy deadpanned. “What do you reckon?”

“I think you’re weird,” Clara passed her friend her mug and then took a seat, reaching for the folder marked _Dresses_. “When’s the last fitting, remind me?” 

“Ninth of December, so please don’t go prematurely overboard on Christmas food.”

“I’ll do my best,” Clara said, drily. “Did you tell the seamstress to-” 

“To add a belt so you don’t look like, and I quote, ‘a box’? Yes, I did. Worry not, my friend.” 

Clara smiled, taking a sip of her hot drink. “Are you excited to try yours on again?” 

“Is it bad that like…” Amy grimaced. “I don’t know how to explain it, but… I haven’t _seen_ my dress since I bought it, and it’s been ages, and I’m worried I’m going to see it again and hate it?” 

“No,” Clara reassured her. “I know what you mean. I’d feel the same.”

“What if I do hate it?” Amy asked, biting her nail, worriedly. “What if I think it’s awful?” 

“You won’t,” Clara said, soothingly. “You picked it, after all, and you have impeccable taste.” 

“I guess,” Amy clicked her tongue. “Planning a wedding is a lot more stressful than it looks on TV.”

“Have you never watched _Don’t Tell the Bride_?” Clara asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know, the one with the many, many grooms complaining about how horrendously tough it is?” 

“Yeah,” Amy rolled her eyes. “But I always thought they were just exaggerating because, like… they’re men.”

Clara laughed. “Good point. Would you trust Rory to plan your wedding?” 

“Urm,” Amy looked conflicted. “Depends. If you were advising him, possibly.” 

“I could do that.” 

“Would you let John?” 

Clara felt her cheeks flush at once, and she dropped her gaze to her mug. “Amy!” she protested weakly, but her friend only smirked. “Amy, we aren’t even… we’re not…” 

“Aww, c’mon. Like you haven’t thought about it.” 

“We’re not even back together yet!” 

“The key word here being _yet_.” 

“Amy, it’s going to be a while.”

“You always say that,” Amy groused. “Then you do things impulsively anyway. Please just do John impulsively, I want to plan your wedding and I can’t do that until you’re back together.” 

“You are not planning my wedding,” Clara said at once, holding one hand up, warningly. “Not a chance. I know you, Amy Pond. It would either be insane or complete chaos.” 

“Rude,” Amy feigned a look of great hurt. “It would be both.” 

“Of course it would.” 

“Have you at least given the matter of John _in general_ some thought?” 

“Yeah,” Clara confessed. “I feel like… I don’t know. I feel like knowing that he’s there and I can have him back whenever is helping with the sadness thing, and…” 

“And what?” 

“Well, I’ve started going to work’s taekwondo club. It’s helping, actually. I just pretend whoever I’m sparring with is John.” 

“That’s a really good way for you to end up accidentally killing a student.” 

“Shut up,” Clara shot back, both amused and irked by the comment. “I’m not _that_ angry.” 

“Says the woman who at the very peak of post-break-up misery was found stabbing a newspaper article of John repeatedly with a pair of scissors.” 

“That is _totally_ irrelevant to today’s discussion.” 

“Is it, though?” 

“Amy,” Clara sighed wearily, fed up of the various iterations of this conversations which had occurred over the previous two weeks. “Can we not?” 

“You need to talk about this.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“You-” 

Sick of the subject, Clara got up and left the room in silence, striding towards her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. Sinking to the floor with her back against the wood, she clutched her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, trying to take deep breaths and work through her conflicted emotions. 

As much as she wanted to take John back, there was a constant, nagging fear that dogged her every thought of him; the fear of what others would think. She was aware of the bitter irony of the fact that after their relationship had come to a crashing halt because of his fear of how others perceived them that she would now be the one to be afraid. And yet she was.

The media were not her concern. The media would write vitriolic crap about her no matter the outcome, be that her moving on or her getting back with John. Either way, she would be torn to shreds. No, what mattered to her were — although she knew it was a cruel appraisal — the people that John didn’t _have,_ the people he didn’t have to worry about: her father, her stepmother, her friends, and her colleagues. 

Her father would be angry, she knew that much. He wouldn’t understand how much it hurt her to be away from John; he wouldn’t be able to, and he wouldn’t want to. He would only see John as the man who had broken her heart twice, and their relationship would move forward in a shaky manner, built on an implicit understanding that John was condemned in the eyes of her family. How could they progress like that? How could they begin to move on from things when the weight of her father’s judgement would hang over them? 

She supposed that perhaps she ought to talk to her father about matters in an attempt to calm herself down, and got up, dimly aware that Amy had not yet come and knocked on her door. She felt a stab of gratitude for that, at least, and as she unlocked her phone and called her dad, her heart began to thunder in her chest and she tried to remember how to breathe. 

“Hello?” he asked, answering after the fourth ring. “Clara?” 

“Hey,” she said in a somewhat strangled tone. “Dad, can I ask you something?” 

“Are you alright?” she could hear the concern in his tone, and she felt her lip wobble treacherously. “What’s wrong?” 

“Dad, if I, ah… if I was thinking of getting back with John, would that make me a bad person?” 

There was a long, drawn-out sigh from his end of the phone. “Love, is there a chance of this happening?”

“We, ah… we ran into each other. Got talking. He apologised, and, well… he wants me back. He said he made a mistake.” 

“He broke your heart, love.” 

“I know,” Clara said in a small voice. “But I love him. And he said he loves me.” 

“Clara…” her dad hesitated for a few seconds, mulling over the issue. “Is he going to change his behaviour?” 

“I think he can.” 

“But has he made assurances of that?”

“Not directly, no.”

“Clara, if this is something you’re genuinely considering, you need to sit down with him and lay out some guidelines of what you expect him to do, and how you expect him to be,” her dad said, pragmatically. “He needs to do the same with you, and then you can reach an understanding and move forward knowing you’re on the same page. If you can’t do that, then you have a problem.” 

“I think we can do that.” 

“Do you fully understand that, even with that conversation having occurred, and even with both of you making an effort, things might still fall apart again?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you ready for that?” 

“No,” Clara admitted, hating herself for that fact. “No, I’m not.” 

“Good,” her father said, much to her surprise. “Because if you go in there with the kind of mentality that expects the worst, the worst will happen. Do you love him?” 

“More than anything.” 

“Do you miss him?” 

“Yes.”

“Then give him one final chance,” he said softly. “And if things don’t work out then they don’t work out, but you tried.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course, I’m sure.” 

“And you won’t hate him?”

“He _did_ break your heart,” her dad reminded her. “But I’ll try to make an effort, love. For you.” 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you. I’d better go and apologise to Amy.” 

“Love you, too,” Dave chuckled. “What did you do?”

“A dramatic sweep.” 

“Yeah, apologies might be in order.”


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Clara meet for coffee, and to discuss the future of their relationship.

Clara shifted in her seat, trying not to fidget overly conspicuously. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had chosen to meet with John in the coffee shop where they had first met for coffee a little over a year ago, but she was regretting her decision with each passing minute. Admittedly, it was reassuring to know they wouldn’t be bothered in here, but, as time ticked on, Clara was suddenly having second thoughts about her choice of venue, wishing she had perhaps picked a location where baristas or waiters might consider stepping in if things grew heated. She had no intentions of yelling at John, or throwing anything, but, given her recent fragile state of mind, anything was possible. Clenching her fists, she made a silent resolution to be calm and composed, regardless of what John said or did, and she sincerely hoped that, should the worst come to the worst, then one of the members of staff would still intervene.

As her anxiety increased with each passing moment, Clara was on the verge of just texting John to meet in a nearby Starbucks, because bugger getting papped or getting bothered, when the little bell above the door chimed and she looked up to see John himself hovering awkwardly by the entrance, looking around and beaming when he caught sight of her. As he strode over, she found herself getting to her feet for no conceivable reason other than simply being more on his eye level, and she was both surprised and pleased when he swept her into a one-armed hug and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. 

“Hi,” she breathed when he pulled away, knowing she was blushing, yet hardly caring. As he sank into a seat she did the same, trying not to grin like a Cheshire Cat as she felt the lingering sensation of his lips on her skin. “How are you?” 

“Better for being here with you,” John quipped, and Clara fought the urge to giggle like a teenager at the cheesy comment. “Sorry, that was corny, even for me. Yeah, I’m alright. Tired, mainly.” 

“Working hard?” 

“Hardly working,” he grimaced, then admitted after half a beat: “Not the same without you.” 

“Sorry,” she mumbled at once, feeling a bizarre need to apologise, even though the situation had hardly been her fault. “I…” 

“No, don’t apologise,” he assured her in a low voice, holding up one finger, warningly. “It was _my_ fault things fell apart; you know, us, and the show, and everything. None of that was your fault, so you don’t need to say you’re sorry or try to make it up to me or anything like that.” 

Clara fell silent for half a beat, trying to establish a response that would not attribute blame to either of them. “I guess,” she said in a carefully neutral tone, shrugging a little as she continued: “Things were just… complicated, with us. Still are.” 

“Are they?” 

“Yeah,” she said, trying to sound a little more assertive than she felt. “I mean, I would argue that they are.” 

“OK, Teach,” John grinned teasingly, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile that she recognised as the one he used when he wanted to indulge her. Part of her hated herself for knowing that, but she found herself returning the expression quickly, before adopting a more serious look. “Justification?” 

“Well, this isn’t just a social call,” Clara explained, mulling over how best to explain matters. “This is… I’m not sure of the correct terminology of the whole thing, but this is… laying out the terms and conditions.” 

“Of?” 

“Me accepting you’re a prat and taking you back. That kind of thing.” 

“So, the T&Cs of… us?” 

“Essentially, and before you can complain that we aren’t a product or a service: relationships need boundaries and limits and understandings, which are set by partners who communicate in a positive and frank manner in order to overcome obstacles and work towards goals. These are negotiable terms in that we can set them today by having an open dialogue, but they are non-negotiable in that they _are_ being set.” 

John just blinked at her, dumbfounded, and Clara gave a nervous little laugh. 

“I may have,” Clara cleared her throat awkwardly, “done some googling about how best to approach this discussion. Read a lot of psychology websites and relationship advice forums.” 

“I see that. What’s the difference between an open dialogue and a closed dialogue?”

“No idea,” she made a face. “Maybe an open dialogue would involve us discussing our coffee order, but a closed dialogue would be one of just stating that we’re both having lattes with soya milk.” 

John chuckled, understanding her not-so-subtle hint. “Coffee would be a good plan. Usual?” 

“You remember my usual?” 

“Of course I do,” he feigned a look of great hurt, placing one hand over his heart and reeling off: “Caramel latte, no frills, no fancy stuff.”

“You’re sweet.” 

“I try,” he grinned and got to his feet, extracting his wallet from his pocket and thumbing through it for a banknote. “Be right back. Do not go anywhere, Miss Instigator-of-Dialogues.” 

She mock-saluted and then watched as he approached the till, the tension in his shoulder palpable, and she hated the fact that she had made him anxious by proposing this discussion. It was nice just to spend time with him again, regardless of the circumstances, and, as much as she cursed herself for immediately falling under the spell of his charm and his smile and his easy nature, she had known it was inevitable. Trying not to succumb to a wave of self-loathing, she reached into her bag and retrieved the small black notebook she had made notes in, skimming through them as she awaited the impending arrival of coffee, and John’s return. 

“Are these your ‘John is a prick’ notes?” he asked a moment later, and she jumped, engrossed as she had been in refreshing her memory of the lists and bullet points she had neatly copied out the previous evening. Looking up at him as he set two mugs down on the table, she could see the nervous look in his eyes as he glanced across at her notebook, and she realised that he was trying to make out her handwriting while simultaneously pretending not to do so. “Sorry. That was just… I’m sure they’re… fuck, I’m nervous, and useless, and sorry.” 

“It’s OK,” she said quietly, watching as he took a seat and put his head in his hands, and she took a fortifying sip of coffee before assuring him: “Honestly, it’s alright. They’re just things I read online and some thoughts I had, and I wanted to write down any ideas you might have so that we can literally and metaphorically be on the same page, and have a record of what we agree to.” 

“That… makes sense,” he concurred, then took a sip of his coffee with feigned nonchalance. “What’s your first proposed term and-slash-or condition?” 

“Urm,” Clara began, casting her eyes back down at the neatly ruled paper and taking another gulp of coffee. “So, I need you to not be bothered about the press. Or to make a concerted effort not to be, at least. Like, a tangible effort that I can witness and notice and appreciate.” 

“I can do that,” he said at once, much to her considerable surprise. She’d expected some kind of explanation or excuse as to why he couldn’t do that. “Honestly, I can do that and I will do that.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course, I’m sure,” he reached over and laid his hand over hers, and Clara resisted the urge to turn her palm over and lace her fingers through his. “Surer than anything I’ve been in a long time. I made a mistake by listening to what those idiots who write for the tabloids said about us. I listened to them, not to you, and that was the biggest fuck-up I’ve ever made. I had you right there with me, but all I could think about were what people who’d never met us thought, and that’s why things went sour, because I couldn’t appreciate what I had.”

Clara blinked, willing herself not to cry as she needed to be completely clear on what she expected of him. “You’ll be able to ignore them calling you a dirty old man? And calling me a golddigger?” 

“We have lawyers, love.” 

“ _You_ do.” 

“Yes, and they are, therefore, by default, also your lawyers.” 

“Are they?”

“If you want them to be.” 

“I mean,” she stammered, taken aback by the casual nature of the offer. “That would be. Helpful, and nice.” 

“Obviously we don’t have to rush into anything now just so that you can have legal access,” John said, his cheeks flushing pink. “I know you’re still healing and working things out and that’s fine, just, at some point in the future, know that you have access to excellent lawyers if you require them.” 

“Good,” Clara smiled, heartened by his clarification and reaching for her mug. “Because my next point was about not rushing into anything.” 

“Would you coming back to the show be ‘rushing into anything’?” John interrupted, and Clara gaped at him in shock, her drink forgotten. Visibly taken aback by her stupefaction, he immediately clarified: “Because not to interrupt your proposition of terms, but I think I’d like that to be one of mine. It’d give us time to get used to each other again in a structured environment, with other people there to make sure we didn’t… oh, I don’t know, snog or throw things at each other or in any other way cock things up.” 

“That sounds… reasonable.” 

“You don’t sound very sure of that.” 

“No, it does,” Clara smiled. The prospect of going back to Radio TARDIS was both terrifying and exhilarating, all at once. “Maybe not full-time, though, perhaps just every other day to start with and then we could build things up to completely co-presenting every show together again?” 

“Of course,” John acquiesced. “Whatever you need. Would Amy maybe want to come back?” 

Clara wrinkled her nose. “Possibly,” she mulled over the question, trying to work out how her flatmate might respond to the offer. “But she might need some time to stop wanting to break your legs, and to calm down and move on. Also… what with the wedding and everything, it might be better if she came back in January.” 

“That’s fair enough. Do you have any other terms?” 

Clara sighed. “Not really,” she admitted. “A lot of what you were doing was ideal, you know? Respecting Danny, respecting me, respecting my job at Coal Hill. All of that was perfect, thank you.” 

John smiled warmly. “Same goes for you. Just… as my second term, could you maybe be a little less… touchy?” he grimaced then, obviously anticipating an angry reaction and seeming surprised when she did not respond accordingly. “God that sounded rude. I just… you know, not in a horrible way, just I felt that sometimes you could fly off the handle instead of communicating with me about your worries or feelings. So, if I’m not worrying about the media, could you maybe talk to me more about your concerns and your feelings, and be frustrated a bit less?”

“Absolutely,” Clara agreed, without hesitation. “I’m sorry, John. I was wrong to take things out on you, and I took you for granted in that respect.” 

“I was expecting an ‘I’m not touchy’ joke,” John chuckled. “But thank you, that means a lot.” 

Clara knitted her brows together in an approximation of a scowl and muttered in her best impersonation of a whiny teenager: “I’m not touchy.” 

John laughed, reaching for his mug and taking a long swig of his drink. “There we go.” 

Her expression relaxed, and she returned his hesitant smile, feeling some of the stress that had been settled over her shoulders alleviate with each passing minute she spent in John’s company. The warmth of his hand on hers was reassuringly familiar, and she finally gave in, turning hers over so that they were palm to palm, and intertwining their fingers. “This is nice,” she confessed. “Being with you again.” 

“Clara…” 

“I mean…” she felt her cheeks burn as she realised her words could be misconstrued. “Not being ‘with you’ like that… I mean being with you physically. Being affectionate. It’s nice.” 

“It is,” John agreed, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. “Feels… right.” 

Clara dropped her gaze shyly to the table, squeezing his hand by way of response. 

“I’m scared,” she confessed, hating herself for saying it. “I’m terrified, John.” 

“I know,” he murmured, and he raised their intertwined fingers to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of her hand. “I know you are, and I want to make that right. I want to help you to not be scared so that we can move on and be happy.” 

“Do you promise?”

“Clara, I promise. I’ve never been more serious about making this work.” 

“Thank you.” 

He hesitated for a moment, then scooted around the booth, holding out an arm and allowing her to nuzzle into his chest in a loose, relaxed embrace. Letting out a contented little sigh, Clara tried to let some of the tension dissipate out of her muscles, and John began to stroke a slow, soothing rhythm on her back as he rested his lips against her temple and simply allowed her to sit in companionable silence. 

“Can I stay here forever?” she mumbled after a few minutes of silently hugging, and John chuckled. 

“Not yet,” he reminded her. “Not until things are fixed. Let’s not run before we can walk, eh?” 

“I know,” she let out a long breath. “You know… it might very well be ‘running,’ but I don’t have a plus one for Amy’s wedding yet, and it _is_ next month. I mean, that is, I can invite someone, but I haven’t, and assuming she’s lost her taste for vengeance by then, would you come with me? As my plus one?” 

“Of course,” he said at once, and Clara beamed. “Do I have to wear a suit?” 

“No,” she assured him, resting one hand on his chest and feeling his heart racing under her palm. “Just something smart. Maybe not the plaid trousers.” 

“The bride is Scottish!”

“The bride is, however, getting married in Brixton.” 

“She’s not going back to Scotland to get hitched? That’s breaking with tradition, isn’t it?” 

“She’s never really lived there,” Clara shrugged. “And Leadworth is just… tiny and not very Amy. It’s all church halls and bunting and the WI.” 

“Fair enough. Brixton, eh?” 

“Yep,” Clara rolled her eyes. “Warehouse-type do, lots of bright colours and cute touches and Instagram-worthy photo ops. All a bit of a cliché, but very Amy.” 

“I like the sound of this,” John mused, wrapping his arm around Clara all the more carefully and murmuring in her ear: “But first… let’s get you back where you belong, and let’s work things out.”


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara returns to Radio TARDIS.

John had to admit that he was surprised by how soon Clara had contacted him after their coffee date, asking if she could return to Radio TARDIS. He’d expected a long period of reflection, one possibly punctuated with several more meetings in coffee shops and restaurants and parks; instead she’d texted him just three days after their initial reunion, asking if she could come into the studio on Monday and observe him at work.

Which was how he came to find himself stood in the reception area of the building, rocking back and forth on his heels as he peered out into the dreary November rain. He was at least grateful that the journalists who’d been hanging around for weeks had finally seen sense and buggered off back to their cosy, centrally-heated offices. Bad timing for them. Small mercy for him. 

“Relax,” Jack called from his position behind his desk, leaning over the wood so that he could stare at John in a stern manner. “You look like you’re about to keel over with terror. It’s not a good look, John.” 

“Can’t help it,” John forced himself to stop shuffling, bringing his hand to his mouth and worrying at a hangnail instead. He couldn’t help it; he was terrified Clara would get here and realise she’d made a mistake, or that she wouldn’t show up at all. “Nervous.” 

“Well, yeah,” Jack rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That’s totally normal. She’s gorgeous, and smart, and you really fucked up last time, so I get that you’re worried, but just try not to do that again and you’ll be fine. Though if you do screw up, can I take her out on a pity date?” 

John raised his eyebrows in the American’s direction, surprised by his gall. “Really, Jack?” 

“Maybe. Can I?” 

John gave a wide, false grin, watching Jack’s expression light up with hope, before saying brightly: “No.” 

“Dammit,” Jack sighed in defeat, his face falling in a carefully theatrical manner. “Well, you’re smiling now, so I consider my work here done. Admittedly, you grinning looks terrifying, but it’s an improvement on the deer-in-the-headlights expression you were sporting a second ago.” 

“Still feel a bit like that.” 

“Relax, dude. She knows you. She’s seen you naked. She’s had arguments with you. She’s been dumped by you. Nothing you can do can surprise her now, because she has been there, done that and got the T-shirt,” John hesitated for half a moment, then added hopefully: “Unless you suddenly announce you’re gay.” 

“Yeah, not gonna happen.” 

“Again, dammit.” 

John chuckled, his colleague’s good humour rubbing off on him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re hopeless, but at least you look less terrified … which is good, because here’s your girl now.” 

John’s head shot round and he took in the sight of Clara, jogging through the downpour under an enormous purple umbrella that seemed to be twice her size. He couldn’t help it: his mouth twisted up into a warm smile, and it took all his self-control not to rush forward and sweep her into a hug. 

“Hey,” she said breathlessly as she tumbled inside, shaking out the offending item and rolling it up. “Sorry about the Mary Poppins vibe, mine broke and this was my only alternative.” 

“Better than getting wet,” Jack muttered, before adding with a smirk: “Although …” But John shot him a warning look before he could say anything smutty. Jack tipped him a wink, then grinned at Clara and said smoothly: “Ma’am.” 

“Jack,” she giggled, going over to his desk and signing in. “You can still call me Clara, you know. I didn’t become the Queen of England in the interim period between September and now. Sadly.” 

“I don’t know,” John mused. “There’s that woman on ITV who looks quite like you; the one playing Queen Victoria.” 

“Damn, you’ve rumbled my secret double life,” Clara deadpanned with a look of resignation. “I am in fact a famous actress who is catfishing you by pretending to be a teacher. My bad.” 

“Isn’t she dating the guy who plays Prince Albert?” Jack asked, frowning a little. “Because if so… poor John.” 

“He’s pretty, but he has sideburns, and they do nothing for me,” Clara shuddered. “Nothing at all.” 

“Duly adding that to the list of non-Clara-approved facial hair.” John mimed scrawling a note in mid-air. “Along with: all hair on my face other than my eyebrows.” 

“Good man,” Clara grinned, looking up at him with a fond smile that made his heart lurch. “Studio?” 

“Sure,” he hovered for a moment, unsure whether to take her hand or not, before she linked her arm through his and beamed. They were barely touching, yet the limited contact warmed him to the core, and he stood a little taller, buoyed by her presence at her side. “Studio.” 

“You two have fun,” Jack wagged a finger at them warningly. “Make good choices. Be responsible.” 

“It’s a radio show, Jack,” Clara reminded him. “But sure, we’ll keep on-air shagging to a minimum.” 

To John’s considerable disappointment, Jack didn’t so much as blush, only raised an eyebrow and gave them both an unreadable look. Rolling her eyes, Clara tugged on John’s arm and began heading towards the studio, and he fell into step beside her automatically, resisting the urge to put his arm around her waist.

“So,” he began, clearing his throat uncomfortably and hating himself for broaching the issue, but equally needing to know that she was OK and that she wasn’t rushing into anything. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.” 

“Wasn’t expecting to wanna come back so soon,” she admitted, dropping her gaze to the ugly blue carpet as they trudged along the corridors. “But I thought about it, and then I listened to your shows last week – just for research, you understand – and… god, you sounded bloody miserable.” 

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” she confessed, and John looked over at her and realised her cheeks were flushed. “You sounded lonely, and lifeless, and it just… I don’t know, it kinda made my heart pang, you know? I know that’s corny, but it did. I hated hearing you sound like that, especially knowing it was my fault, and I realised how much I missed it.” 

“Well, I was equally to blame but… god, I don’t want to get all sentimental, just… I missed you,” he mumbled, feeling a touch embarrassed by the soppiness of his words, yet hardly caring. “My partner in crime.” 

“I’m back now,” she assured him fiercely, stopping outside the door to Studio 12 and letting go of his arm so that she could face him. Looking down at her and meeting her gaze, he saw the resolve and emotion contained therein, and he fought the urge to kiss her, knowing it was too soon to do so, yet aching to all the same. “And I’m here for as long as you want me.” 

“Thank you,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead by way of a compromise. “I know.” 

She leant forward then, wrapping her arms around his waist, and they stood locked in an embrace for a few seconds before John sighed and pulled away with the utmost reluctance. “Showtime,” he said, as Clara’s face momentarily fell. “Though hugging you is far preferential.”

“I know,” she grinned cheekily as he held open the door for her, watching as she ducked under his arm and stepped inside, her face lighting up as she looked around the small office space. “Hey, Andrew.” 

“Hey Clara,” the youngster grinned. “Welcome back. Now, are you presenting today or just watching?” 

“Tough call, but I think I’m gonna have to say just watching. Or maybe …” she looked up at John, hopefully, “…just getting involved for one or two segments of the show, as a surprise guest. If that’s OK?”

“That could work,” John reasoned, as Andrew got to his feet and went over to the cupboard in the corner. “Can you keep quiet for that long, though?” he teased, and Clara smacked him lightly in the arm. “Hey!” 

“Meanie.” 

Andrew began digging through the accumulated tech, CDs and other junk before emerging with a pair of headphones that John recognised at once as Clara’s: they were far newer and nicer than his battered old pair, white and blue and covered in swirling silver designs that she had doodled on with a permanent marker in idle moments prior to broadcasts or during especially long songs. “Here you go,” the lad said, holding them out to her, and she stared at them for half a beat before stepping forward and accepting them with a trembling hand.

“You kept them,” she said in a quiet, awed tone, looking at John with a touched expression. “I didn’t think…”

“Of course we kept them,” John told her, his voice threatening to crack with emotion as she continued to stare at him with surprised adoration, then added, for levity’s sake: “Wouldn’t waste perfectly good headphones.” 

Clara looked up at him then, ignoring the joke, and he was stunned to see tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, running her thumb over the white and blue plastic. “Really, it means a lot.” 

He was about to reply when Andrew cut in, flinging himself back into his desk chair and asking casually: “No Amy?” 

“Not yet,” Clara dragged her gaze away from John with the utmost reluctance. “She still kind of wants to break John’s legs, so maybe in the new year. Post-wedding, when she’s stopped being a vengeful bridezilla.” 

Andrew shrugged. “Fair point. Tell her I say nice work on the car.” 

Clara grinned. “I will.” 

“Hey!” John protested, looking between the two of them in confusion. “How do you know about that?” 

“You told Raz about it when you thought I was on Spotify. Gotta admit, John… Amy really knows her stuff, prank-wise.” 

“Oh,” John sniffed, feeling a touch mortified. “Well, it was an excellent work of revenge.” 

“Indeed,” Clara concurred, looking down at her headphones and adding shyly: “Although, apologies.” 

“No, it’s fine,” John said at once. “It was fixable, and no harm was done. Plus… it was also very much deserved.” 

There was an awkward pause. John could tell Clara was struggling to think of anything to say, so he ploughed on: “Anyway, shall we head into the studio and get comfy? I’ve gotta run through the playlist once more and check the links.”

“Sure,” she said with palpable relief, and he stepped into the smaller room, flicking on the lights and reaching over to wake up his computer. “You know…”

“Mm?” John said. 

“I brought up the wedding idea to Amy.” 

John’s brain momentarily glitched, and he looked at her with a confused look. “What wedding idea?” 

“You,” Clara explained patiently. John’s confusion turned to a look of panic, so she quickly added, “Being my plus one at her wedding next month.” 

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” John said with relief, and Clara’s mouth twitched at the corners in amusement. “Sorry. Brain fart. Continue?” 

“She said that, assuming come December she doesn’t still possess the desire to beat you to death with her bouquet — which, just FYI, contains eryngium bourgatii, so would advise avoiding that fate — then yeah, sure.” 

“Eryn- what?” 

“Otherwise known as Mediterranean sea holly.” 

John just blinked at her uncomprehendingly. 

“Purple spiky things.” Clara rolled her eyes as John continued to fail to understand. “Sort of like really metal thistles.” 

“That sounds… very bridal.” 

“It kind of works in the wider bouquet, and besides… it’s Amy. She’s not going to go for anything conventional, is she?”

“I mean, I guess it’s a good makeshift weapon, if necessary. Should… I don’t know, the Europeans decide to try and reclaim the nation for the sake of the Union.” 

“Exactly,” Clara laughed, slinging her headphones around her neck and pulling up a chair. “Now, are you going to distract me by going on about weddings, which I am unbelievably bored of, or actually present your show?” 

John poked his tongue out at her, duly chastised, even though Clara had started it. “Sorry, boss.”

 

* * *

 

When the show concluded later that evening, John looked over to Clara with a somewhat wary look. “You know,” he began, uncertain how she would respond to his impending suggestion. “We could go on Twitter and see what people’s reactions to your return are like. If that’s not being too concerned with the media.” 

“Oh, definitely not,” she said immediately, much to his considerable relief, and she scooted over to his side so that she could peer at his screen. “Besides, I’m nosy; I wanna know what people are saying.” 

John navigated to the appropriate webpage and then opened his mentions, beginning to scroll down with a sense of trepidation.

Almost at once, Clara burst into laughter and jabbed her finger at the monitor, indicating one tweet in all-caps. 

**@SmithwaldStan** **:** _GOD SAVE ME ARE YOU TWO BACK TOGETHER AGAIN?!?!?!?!?!?!?!_

Underneath the words was a gif of a small, green cartoon character shouting, “I have a mighty need!” 

“Well, I think we can take it to mean that she ships us, John.” 

“She whats us? ‘Ships us’? To where?” 

“No, it’s not like package shipping. It’s like, wanting people to be together. Characters or celebrities or whatever.”

“Hang on, people actually _want_ us to be together?” he asked with incredulity, taken aback by this revelation. He smiled. “Well, it’s about time, too.”

And before Clara could stop him, he hit _like._  

“Oh, my god,” she shook her head in amused disbelief. “You’ve probably just started an internet frenzy.” 

“Well, let them be frenzied,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, letting her nuzzle into his chest and smiling at the familiarity of having her with him again. “Now, how about laughing at some more of these then grabbing something from the canteen? Bill will be pleased to see you.” 

“Plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara's headphones can be seen [here.](http://www.dv247.com/headphones/beyerdynamic-custom-one-pro-plus-over-ear-headphones-silver-sky--220328)


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy and Rory finally tie the knot, but Clara's mind is elsewhere...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception venue can be found [here](http://www.brixtoneast1871.co.uk). Amy's dress can be seen [here](http://www.bhldn.com/bride-wedding-dresses-sleeves/jessica-bodysuit-delphi-skirt) and Clara's [here](http://doctorwhobrasil.com.br/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Jenna-Coleman-Richard-Madden-07-683x1024.jpg).

As far as Clara was concerned, the two chairs that had been set up in the centre of her lounge were twin oases of tranquillity amid the chaos, bustle, and borderline hysteria of the wedding preparation that was currently taking place early on a chilly December morning. Sliding her eyes left, Clara looked over to where Amy was having her makeup done by a girl young enough to be one of Clara’s students, and she grinned when her best friend caught her eye and reached over to grab her carefully by the hand with an excited squeal.

“Big day,” her flatmate enthused, as the hairdresser working on taming Clara’s hair into something approximating an updo added another hair grip to the underside of the style. “I can’t believe it’s finally here.”

“I know,” Clara smiled, her nerves beginning to dissipate and the excitement starting to kick in. “You know, I really thought Rory would never get around to asking you, but here we are at last. He must be absolutely bricking it.” 

“I was thinking about phoning him,” Amy admitted, looking a touch embarrassed by her own suggestion. “Would that be weird? Or bad luck? I know he can’t _see_ me, but talking to me would be alright, wouldn’t it?” 

“I should think so,” Clara reasoned. “It’d be nice to speak to him, anyway. Reassure him, that kind of thing. He’ll be getting in a state otherwise.” 

“Speakerphone, please,” the makeup artist reminded Amy in a strict tone. “Unless you want your phone to have a perfectly imprinted contour, which I strongly doubt.” 

Amy nodded and slipped her phone out of the pocket of her robe, dialling Rory’s number before settling the device on her lap and activating speaker mode. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello,” Amy said brightly, in a tone that Clara knew she was using to conceal her nerves. “It’s me. Your bride-to-be.”

“Hello!” Rory said more enthusiastically, although his voice sounded somewhat muffled. “Sorry, brushin’ my teef.” 

“Nice multitasking,” Clara called over with a laugh. “I’m impressed, Mr Williams.” 

“Am I on spea’er?” 

“Yep,” Amy confirmed. “So, don’t say anything weird.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Excited?”

“Yep,” there was a spitting noise, and then his voice became clearer. “Got everything sorted and laid out ready, so I won’t forget anything. Terrified of doing that. I’ve made a list and I keep reading through it, just in case.” 

“Rory, if it happens, it happens.” 

“Yeah, but then your day will be ruined.”

“Rory, I’m marrying you. Nothing can detract from the significance of that… unless you forget the rings, and then I may have to hit you with something. Ideally my bouquet, or one of Clara’s extremely pointy high heels.”

There was a soft rattling noise that Clara presumed was Rory shaking the ring box next to the phone as evidential proof. “Rings: check. Vows: check. Buttonhole: check.”

“Good man,” Amy let out a sigh of relief, some of the tension melting away from her shoulders. “Now, I’d better go, lots to do… hair and makeup and getting into my dress and such. I’ll see you at the church.” 

“Yep.” 

“I’ll be the one in the white dress.” 

“Yep.” 

“I love you.” 

“Yep,” there was a short, awkward pause in which Clara and Amy exchanged a look. “I mean, I love you, too! See you then.”

Amy rolled her eyes with loving exasperation and hung up. “That man,” she tutted, locking her phone and stowing it back in her pocket. “He’s probably getting into a right state, bless him. At least he’s organised. I’ve heard horror stories about grooms forgetting rings, or vows, or worse.” 

“One groom at a wedding I did,” the makeup artist said with a mischievous grin, “was so hungover on his wedding day that he forgot to put a belt on, and his trousers fell down in the middle of the service.”

Amy and Clara burst into laughter. “OK, I think Rory is more organised than that,” Amy said with tangible relief. “And if not, I hope he’s got nice pants on.” 

“To be fair, I’d be hoping that anyway,” Clara reasoned, grimacing. “Given how much effort you’ve gone to with bridal lingerie, I will be superbly unimpressed if he’s just wearing ratty old grey boxers or something boring.”

“This is true,” Amy clicked her tongue. “He’d better have bought new pants, in that case. Nice ones. Calvin Klein, or something of that ilk. I dunno, though, do you think he’s that organised?” 

“I reckon so,” Clara reached over and took her friend’s hand, recognising that Amy was starting to panic again and knowing she needed to calm her down. “Chill.” 

“Can’t,” Amy mumbled, looking down at her lap and clenching and unclenching her free hand, examining her manicure as she did so. “Just worried about everything.” 

“I know,” Clara soothed. “But we’ve planned everything down to the tiniest detail, and checked and double-checked and triple-checked every list and plan and itinerary. It’s going to be fine.” 

“I hope so,” Amy looked over to her friend and offered her a worried little smile. “Why aren’t _you_ worried?” 

“Should I be?” 

“I mean, John is coming,” Amy’s smile became surer as she adopted a teasing tone and instigated a topic shift. “Aren’t you worrying about me clobbering him with my bouquet?” 

“Excuse me,” Clara said in her sternest teacher voice. “You assured me that there would be absolutely no clobbering.” 

“I’ll be good,” Amy assured her. “As long as he’s good. Are you gonna cop off with him?”

“Amy!” 

“Well! It’s a shame he’s not the best man, really… they always cop off with the bridesmaids.” 

“ _Amy_ ,” Clara said again, feeling herself blush. “I’m not… we’re not… _behave_.” 

“Shan’t,” her best friend retorted, poking her tongue out. “Winding you up is much more fun.” 

Clara was on the verge of rolling her eyes when the hairdresser whipped out a can of hairspray, and she closed them instead as her head was doused in a cloud of the product. She was pathetically grateful that Amy had even consented to John attending the wedding, but, despite weeks of hypothesising, she still had no idea how the day’s events would play out: at the very least maybe a dance together and some flirting, but nothing more. Sure, it would be nice to have a cheeky snog someplace away from the main party, but she didn’t want to get her hopes up only to have them dashed if John continued to remain the perfect gentleman. 

“Oswald,” Amy said loudly, and Clara’s eyes snapped open as she realised she’d zoned out completely. “God, you’ve gone a really awful colour. Makeup time, stat.”

 

* * *

 

Once Amy had walked down the aisle to a surprisingly sedate music choice _;_ once Rory had finished crying; once vows had been exchanged and rings slipped onto fingers, Clara found herself standing beside the door of the reception venue. She looked around at the warmly lit exposed brickwork of the converted warehouse, and admired the pared-back table settings, admitting to herself that despite Amy’s initial assertion of not wanting a colour scheme, her eventual choices of deep purples, rich reds, and sumptuous greens worked surprisingly well. Multi-coloured bunting criss-crossed the ceiling, and a set of ubiquitous, borderline-hipster illuminated letters spelled out “LOVE” on one side of the dance floor. 

Guests were trickling into the venue in dribs and drabs and Clara was greeting each of them with as much forced cheer as she could manage, because there was only one person she wanted to see, and thus far she had only glimpsed the very top of his silver curls as she earlier followed Amy down the aisle. John had apparently vanished somewhere between the ceremony and the reception, and her mood was souring with each passing minute. She’d been nervous enough about the prospect of seeing him today, and in the absence of his presence, her anxiety was only increasing.

Despite her worry as to her not-boyfriend’s location, her faux-positive demeanour became genuine when Bonnie and Will stepped inside, Eli slumbering peacefully in his mother’s arms and garbed in a tiny shirt and dungaree set. “Hello, you two!” Clara murmured, leaning in and kissing her cousin on the cheek with care so as not to wake the infant. “Hello, little man!” 

He snuffled in his sleep, and Bonnie laughed, confessing: “I was so worried he’d cry mid-service, but he’s been nothing but an angel.” 

“Oh, look at him in his little dungarees,” Clara felt her heart melt as she looked down at him. “Can I have a cuddle or will he wake up?”

Bonnie’s face lit up with relief. “Oh, my god. Please. Please do. My arms are killing me.” 

“Hey!” Will protested, looking affronted. “I’d have held him if you’d said.”

“You’re wearing a suit which costs about eight times what my dress did,” Bonnie reminded him pragmatically, before handing Eli to Clara with the utmost care. “So: no.”

“I’ll keep hold of him for a bit,” Clara assured Bonnie, carefully rocking Eli a little and smiling down at him with pride. “You guys go find your table and get something to drink.” 

“Bless you,” Bonnie said gratefully, linking arms with Will and leading him away, and Clara turned her attention back to greeting guests. Or endeavouring to, at any rate: most of them wanted to fuss over Eli, and Clara found herself having to explain to several confused attendees that this was not in fact her son, but yes, he was extremely cute. 

Eli woke up as the final guests trickled into the venue, and Clara looked down at him and offered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t cry. Taking his hand in hers and murmuring softly to him, she was so caught up that she didn’t notice John’s presence in front of her until he spoke. 

“Cute baby,” he said quietly, and she started, her head snapping up at once. He was dressed in a smart slate-coloured suit with a dark grey shirt underneath, and, while it contrasted sharply with his usual relaxed look, she had to admit that it looked perfect on him. “I presume this is the famous Eli?” 

“Yep. I’m giving Bonnie and Will a break,” she explained, as John leaned over the little one and kissed Clara on both cheeks, before pulling back and letting Eli grip onto his finger. “He’s being a little star so far.” 

“Hello, wee lad,” John whispered, and Eli blinked up at him solemnly. “Aren’t you a cute little bairn?” 

“You’re so Scottish,” Clara shook her head fondly. “Cute though you are when fussing over a baby, we should probably go and find our seats, and I should probably give this little one back to his parents before Amy and Rory arrive.” 

“Good plan.”

Heading towards where her cousin was sat, Clara kept her eyes on Eli, occasionally pulling faces at him as he squirmed in her arms. Stopping in front of his parents, she found Will shrugging off his jacket and getting to his feet, and she passed Eli to him with a smile. 

“He’s an angel,” she told him. “Only just woke up.” 

“He might be hungry,” Bonnie made a face. “I’ll feed him once Amy and Rory arrive.”

Will rocked his son carefully, beaming down at him with a proud expression. “My handsome little man, aren’t you?”

It was then that Clara noticed the way Bonnie was looking at Will: with a wide-eyed expression of adoration that she recognised as a mirror of the way she looked at John. Raising an eyebrow at her cousin, Bonnie mirrored the gesture, but before Clara could say anything, Amy and Rory made their grand entrance, and she was forced to sidle off to find her seat at the top table.

 

* * *

 

After the wedding breakfast came the speeches, which predictably went on for what felt like hours, not least because Rory dissolved into tears several times during his. Clara had spent weeks planning her own, writing and rewriting it until it was perfect and then rehearsing it with John in snatched moments at the studio, and she felt absurdly proud of herself for managing to get through it without getting choked up. As she sat down following the final toast that ended her speech, Clara caught John’s eye from several tables away and he gave her a thumbs up, and it was then that Amy whooped loudly and announced it was time for dancing. 

Clara watched as the new Mr and Mrs Williams got out of their seats and the lights dimmed, guests heading towards the dance floor and crowding around the edges in order to watch the couple’s first dance. Taking up a spot on the corner nearest the L of “LOVE,” Clara jumped when she felt arms snake around her waist, before she realised she recognised the hands now resting on her stomach. 

“Relax,” a familiar Scottish voice murmured. “Just me.”

“Hello,” she hummed, leaning back into John’s embrace. “Didn’t think watching the lovebirds dance would be your thing at all.”

“It would be rude not to,” he pressed a kiss to her hair. “It’s a wedding, after all.” 

“Mm,” Clara asserted, as the soft opening chords of _Flightless Bird, American Mouth_ began to play, and Rory placed his hands on his bride’s hips. Amy buried her face in his shoulder, and the two of them began to sway slowly in time with the music, completely caught up in each other and the moment and blissfully unaware of the guests around them. 

“Beautiful,” John breathed in her ear, and Clara felt her heart begin to race. “Absolutely beautiful.” 

“She is, yeah.”

“I meant you.” 

Clara twisted in his embrace so that she was facing him, trying to find the right words for what she wanted to express. She loved him, and she wanted him, but- 

Before she could think twice, she gently took hold of his lapels and pulled him down to her level for a kiss, vaguely aware that one of his hands had come up to cup her cheek and that this position was superbly uncomfortable, but somehow not caring. Pulling away only when she began to run out of air, she looked up at him and felt abruptly shy, her cheeks burning as red as her dress. 

“Well,” he said softly, looking somewhat awed. “That was unexpected.”

“Yes, it was,” she bit her lip, trying to get her blushing under control. “I think maybe… it’s time.” 

“To…?” 

“Get back together. Properly.”

Before John could reply, the song came to an end and Amy stepped away from Rory with visible reluctance, before looking around at the assembled guests with a wicked grin. 

“OK, ladies,” Amy called out. “Before things get too wild and you’re all too pissed to catch anything other than a cold, I’m gonna throw my bouquet. So, get onto the dance floor and pick a good position, because, even though we all know this is a load of bollocks, it’s a good laugh.” 

Clara looked to John, who raised an eyebrow as if to say “oh, go on then,” and she grinned, stepping forwards and finding a spot near the front of the group as Amy took several paces away and turned her back on them, beginning to count down. 

“Three… two… one…” 

The bouquet spun through the air in slow motion, as Clara and her peers jumped in synchronicity. 

 _There’s no chance,_ Clara thought to herself as her feet left the floor. _Amy’s cousins are Amazonian, I’ll never-_  

There was a soft sensation against her hands, and as she landed, she looked up in shock to find them wrapped around the floral arrangement. Amy turned around and cheered, looking from Clara to a somewhat bemused John with a gleeful expression. 

“Well, Oswald,” Amy said, “you know what they say about catching the bouquet…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purely cos it's adorable... Eli's little outfit can be seen [here.](http://www.mothercare.com/occasion-wear/ticking-stripe-dungaree-and-bodysuit-set/LMA546.html?cgid=collection-occasion)


	75. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after Clara caught the bouquet at Amy's wedding, John has a very important question for her...

“John, we’re going to be late,” Clara said for what felt the hundredth time that hour, pulling her dress down as she crossed the bedroom to stick her purse in her handbag, all while putting her earrings in. “So, kindly stir yourself.” 

“I’m ready,” he protested from his position sitting on the bed, gesturing to his shirt and dark jeans, then making a great show of checking his watch and looking up at Clara with a distinctly bemused expression. “Besides, we’ve still got ages.” 

“It’s almost Christmas and the Tube is going to be heaving, so I want to err on the side of caution. Being crushed to death en route would really spoil the evening’s festivities.” 

“Clara, love,” he got up and put his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a kiss to her neck as she took a deep, steadying breath. “Relax. This evening’s going to be wonderful, so stop worrying.” 

“I just don’t want to be late,” she sighed, leaning back into his embrace and letting some of the tension sag from her shoulders. “One year since Amy Pond became Mrs Williams. Kind of a big deal.”

“You know… it’s also been a year since you took back my miserable arse and made me the happiest man alive,” John murmured in her ear, stroking his thumbs over the soft green velvet of her dress. “Which is equally, if not more important, in my humble opinion.” 

Clara giggled, enjoying the tickling feel of his hands tracing patterns over her stomach and hips. “You are somewhat biased, though,” she chided, half-heartedly. “Not to mention bad. Their anniversary is a big deal.” 

“So is ours.” 

Clara turned to face John and cupped his cheek with one hand, watching as he adopted a pouting, puppy-dog expression. She tried to stay serious in the face of his wide, pleading eyes, but instead she found herself grinning fondly. “You’re cute,” she told him, patting his cheek encouragingly. “But also stubbly. Go and have a shave.” 

“Ach, but I’m dressed now! What if I get shaving foam on my shirt?” 

“Well then, take your shirt off,” Clara smirked. “I certainly won’t be complaining.”

John got off the bed and began undoing the buttons as Clara started to hum _The Stripper._ “You’re awful,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” 

He pressed a quick kiss to her temple and then stepped into the ensuite bathroom, leaving Clara alone with her thoughts. 

Plonking down on the bed and casting a quick eye over the calendar pinned to the wall, Clara considered how much had changed in the year since Amy and Rory’s wedding, not least her change of residence: her former flatmate had moved into a tiny terraced house in Balham with Rory, leaving Clara struggling with the rent. John had immediately stepped in with an air of gallantry and offered to let her move in with him. After some initial _umm_ ing and _err_ ing, she’d accepted his proposition, and, in the months since, she’d built up a life in Hammersmith, although she had to admit that the daily commute to Shoreditch was becoming increasingly exhausting. Perhaps it was time to leave Coal Hill and seek employment at one of the many private schools around the area? It would be less of a challenge, certainly, but it might render her life somewhat easier, particularly with juggling the show as well. Failing that, there was always the opportunity to go part-time, which- 

“Stop it,” John called from the next room, interrupting her train of thought. “I know what you’re doing, stop it.” 

“Stop what?” she shouted back, and she heard the faint sound of him chuckling. 

“Overthinking,” he replied. “Don’t do too much of that.” 

“I won’t,” she assured him, getting her phone out in a bid to distract herself from getting overly sentimental or anxious. Worries about work could wait until January and, in the meantime, she would attempt to enjoy herself. “Gonna text Bonnie and update her on timings.” 

“Plan,” John stuck his head around the door, shaving foam still lathered over one cheek and a towel slung over his shoulder. “Is Will coming?” 

“Of course,” Clara informed him. “You know how sickening the two of them are; I don’t think they’ve actually been apart for longer than a day since last Christmas. Genuinely low-key concerned about that, but it’s kind of cute, so I might have to forgive them.” 

John looked abruptly hopeful. “Are they bringing Eli?” 

Clara laughed, knowing how much John doted on the little boy. Christmas shopping for the one-year-old had been an amusing experience as John had become thoroughly over-excited about the prospect of toy shops, although she’d had to veto his suggestion of buying the little one a musical instrument. “No, as this is a grown-up dinner at a grown-up restaurant. You know, for grown-ups. If you’re that mad keen on spending time with him, we can offer to babysit in the new year.”

“I can’t help it,” John shot back, his expression growing soppy. “He’s a dear wee thing.” 

“Yes, he is,” Clara concurred, then flapped her hands at him. “Now, shave. Go on.” 

John rolled his eyes but disappeared back into the bathroom obediently, and Clara unlocked her phone, firing off a quick text to her cousin. 

_John’s just having a shave while I finish my makeup, then I think we’re good to go. Meet at West Brompton in 40?_

Moving over to her dressing table, Clara set her phone down as she took a seat and reached for her lipstick, applying it in careful, precise strokes and then evening out the result with lip liner. Turning her head from side to side, she admired the result before blotting it with a tissue, and it was then that her phone buzzed and she reached for it reflexively. 

_Sure! Babysitter arrives in 15 so we’re good to go when you are xx_

Clara smiled, sending back: 

_John is terribly disappointed you’re not bringing little one._

Pawing through her jewellery box, Clara drew out the small Tiffany necklace John had given her the previous year and clasped it around her neck with care, tucking it inside her dress so that only the chain was visible. She liked to wear it, even if it was only underneath her clothes; it reminded her of the first tumultuous summer she and John had spent together, and the anniversary of their first conversation. 

Her phone pinged again, and Clara looked down and read:

_He can babysit for us on the 28 th if he likes?_

“John?” Clara called, and he reappeared from the bathroom, face now devoid of both shaving foam and stubble. “Bonnie says we can babysit Eli on the twenty-eighth if you’d like.” 

“Really?” his face lit up at the prospect. “That’d be brill!” 

“You are so ludicrously soft in the head for that baby,” Clara chuckled. “We can tell her later. Are you nearly ready?” 

“No, I’m going to dinner shirtless.”

Clara pouted, tilting her head to the side as though appraising him. “I mean…” she mused. “I’m not complaining, but you might get a bit cold.” 

“I’ll have you to keep me warm.”

“I’m not shagging you in public.” 

John rolled his eyes. “I meant with your dazzling, radiant beauty, and staggering hotness.” 

Clara blushed, looking down at her dressing table. The novelty of John complimenting her had still not worn off, and she hoped it never would. “Well,” she mumbled. “Shirt, please.” 

“Yes, boss,” he reached for the previously discarded item of clothing and shrugged it on, buttoning it with care and then checking the result in the mirror. “Does this pass muster?” 

“Definitely.” 

“Excellent. When do we need to leave?”

Clara squinted at the time on her phone screen. “Ten minutes, but I’m more or less ready.” 

“Nah,” John argued, and the comment took her by surprise. “I don’t think you are.”

“I’m sorry?” Clara asked, unimpressed and somewhat insulted by the remark. “Is there something wrong with this outfit?” 

“No, it’s perfect,” he told her truthfully. “Really, completely perfect.” 

“My hair?”

“Gorgeous, as ever.” 

“My makeup?” 

“Glowing. Flawless. Immaculate.” 

“So, how am I not ready?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and trying not to scowl too overtly. “Hmm?” 

“You’re missing something very important,” John’s mouth twitched up into a shy smile. “You’re missing something unbelievably vital.” 

“Could you stop being a mysterious prick and-” 

“Something shiny,” John carried on, ignoring her protests. “Something beautiful. Something to offset your necklace perfectly.” 

“I have no idea-” 

He took a small black box out of the pocket of his jeans, and Clara’s heart stopped. 

“Something like this?” he asked, getting down on one knee and opening it to reveal her mother’s diamond engagement ring, nestled in a black velvet setting.

“Oh, my god,” she breathed. “That’s…” 

“Clara Oswald,” John said in a somewhat shaky voice. “Will you do me the outstanding honour of becoming my wife?” 

“Yes,” she said at once, bursting into happy tears. “Yes, oh my god, yes, absolutely.” 

John beamed then, his eyes welling up as he slipped the ring onto her finger and pressed a tender kiss to the back of her hand. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for making me the happiest man alive.” 

“Stand up, idiot,” she laughed, reaching down and pulling him up by the front of his shirt so that she could kiss him. “I love you, you soppy man.” 

“I love you, too,” he said, looking down at her hand and the way the stone caught the light. “Also, not going to lie, quite glad that it fits.” 

“How did you…” 

“You know how I went to Manchester on a business trip?” he grinned mischievously. “Well, it wasn’t Manchester, and it wasn’t a business trip. I went to see your dad to let him know that I was planning to pop the question, and he suggested that you have your mum’s ring. Family heirloom, and all that.” 

“But that was in October!” 

“Yeah, and I wanted to wait until the anniversary of us getting back together. I was forward-planning, you see. You’ve taught me well.” 

“Indeed I have,” a thought occurred to Clara, and she groaned. “Oh, my god. Amy is gonna be _so_ mad that we’re upstaging her first anniversary dinner.” 

“Well, urm… no, she’s not,” John said, looking somewhat embarrassed by his own admission. “Because I ran the idea past her a while ago and she shrieked so loudly we nearly got thrown out of Costa.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“I’m not. I’m actually quite surprised she’s managed to keep it a secret.” 

“Dammit, you’ve ruined my opportunity to surprise her,” Clara deadpanned. “How long has she known?” 

“Since two weeks ago.” 

“Oh, so _that’s_ why she was so keen to take me to Pandora,” Clara realised, the pieces falling into place. “Ring sizing. You’re a very smart man, John.” 

“I try. I mean, I needed to make sure that aforementioned family heirloom actually _fit._ ” 

“I have mentioned that I love you, right?” 

“You did. _Fiancée._ ” 

“That sounds nice,” she hummed, kissing him again. “Say it again.” 

“Fiancée.” 

“Soon to be wife,” she giggled as he rested his hands on her waist, then a thought occurred to her. “Well, possibly soon. Depending on how keen you’re feeling.” 

“Phenomenally,” John informed her. “Tremendously.” 

“Well…” 

“I will say, however…” he grimaced. “I’m not getting married in winter. The weather is invariably crap, and I don’t especially want you freezing to death for the sake of getting nice photographs. Might ruin the mood somewhat.” 

“Agreed,” Clara made a face. “Don’t get me wrong, Amy’s was lovely, but… summer. Please and also thank you.” 

“Summer it is,” John pressed a kiss to Clara’s forehead. “Now… fun though this discussion may be… we have got an anniversary dinner to attend… and Christmas to get through…” 

“We do.” 

“So, Miss Oswald, soon to be Mrs…” 

“I’m hyphenating,” she said at once, feeling a touch guilty about that fact but equally keen to avoid the somewhat anonymous title of Mrs Smith. “And _Ms_ -ing. ‘Mrs’ makes me feel middle-aged.” 

“Almost are,” John teased, and she smacked him playfully on the arm. “ _Ow_ , OK, no it isn’t. Thirty-two is not even remotely middle-aged, so stop worrying.” 

“That’s better.” 

“So,” John tried again. “Soon-to-be Ms Oswald-Smith… to dinner?” 

She took John’s hand in her own and squeezed. “And the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara's ring can be seen [here.](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/31/16/d4/3116d4381dea50ce9f74031a826f664e--simple-vintage-rings-engagement-rings-simple-vintage.jpg)
> 
> So, we come to the end of our saga! Enormous thanks to everyone who has read this fic, left comments, messaged me about it, made edits, or in any other way expressed their enthusiasm for it over the last few months - I love you all. The happy news is that I have a short sequel in the pipeline, and then another AU idea to work on afterwards. The less happy news is that I will probably have less time to write due to work and other commitments, so you might need to be patient with me!


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